


Our Dreams Follow

by Eneid_Elisor



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Comedy, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Far Future, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Gods, Historical, Modern Era, Reincarnation, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Supernatural Elements, Transmigration, World Travel, episodic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 24,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27571978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eneid_Elisor/pseuds/Eneid_Elisor
Summary: He was tired. He lived in a loop: same suffering, same hatred, same ending.He was falling. He kept gaining and losing, gaining and losing: family, friends, love.He was dying. He kept falling asleep, dreaming of never waking up.What was the purpose of his existence? A mere observer of countless worlds, stories and people?Voices whispered in his dreams.“Wait for me.”He was waiting. But for how long? For how long before he tired, fell, and died?“Wait for me.”He was waiting.~~~All Rights Reserved.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	1. Prologue: To sleep, perchance to dream

If one could live in dreams, he would force his body into an artificial coma. Life and living bored him. After so many years, he could feel some mild amusement for his fellow men. Whether they cared for him as parents, or whether they cursed for his death, loving in return and hating in return took too much effort. Effort he had plenty to spare but what worth was it, when he gained nothing from the success of any endeavour? 

It was better to sleep some more. Better yet, if the pillows he put his head on were soft and the blankets he covered himself with were warm. Even better, if none would disturb his sleep and no responsibilities were required of him. He couldn’t remember when he became a hedonist, but he had never looked back henceforth. 

He used to be more righteous. Full of bright, hopeful things for his lives, any and all of them. His chest would clench in vindication at justice done and vengeance taken. His heart would beat in sympathy at the suffering of his hosts and the misfortune of those kind. 

He did no such things now. Now he would do his duty, would fulfill his promise and nothing more. Not a wisp of extra effort beyond the maximization of his comfort.

Or at least, he was on his way to doing no such things. Pity, after all, required no effort. 

He reached the edge of the cliff. In this life, he had been hated. In this life, he had been feared. What a tiring life it had been. Perhaps, he would be able to sleep more next time.

The rebels had been crushed both times, as required by his host. The fact that his host hadn’t thought to ask for him to live past that wasn’t his fault now, was it? 

As he made his way over the ledge, he heard steps behind him. The Queen stood there, watching as her tyrant of a husband prepared to fall to his death.

He hadn’t paid much attention to her before. Had even thought that they mutually wished to stay as far from each other as possible. 

“You are not him, are you?”

Surprised, he looked at her more carefully. Her beauty was one that he rarely saw: of fire, of pride, of dominion. But her eyes, they were soft, they were longing.

It hadn’t been the first time someone had discovered him, so he had learned that the best response was silence. She smiled, eyes still soft. He had thought they had an agreement of mutual avoidance. Perhaps, he was wrong. Perhaps, she had loved the man before him. His host, for all his faults, was quite attractive. He resisted the urge to sigh. He had thought her smarter. He turned his back to her. A pity. 

As he fell, he thought he heard whispers. The Queen’s voice laughed in his ears.

“Wait for me.”

He slept. Perhaps, this time, he would dream.


	2. Arc 1.0 - Unless first a dream

He woke up.

Experience had taught him to keep his eyes closed, so he took a moment to understand his situation.

First things first. He dreamt. He can’t quite remember what and for how long, but he dreamt. It had been so long since the last time he dreamt of anything that he couldn’t help but feel more hopeful for this lifetime. Perhaps, there would be something to surprise him? It seemed foolish, but he hadn’t felt foolish in years, so he had to cherish the chance.

His host seemed to have died in his sleep. He had a short, fulfilling life with little meaning beyond his paintings and books. No family, no lovers and not many friends. Quite simple, no great ambitions or deeds, but he had been happy. And happiness was so rare an achievement that few ever saw it, let alone experience it.

Now certain of his safety, he rose from the bed and entered the bathroom. Black curly hair and warm brown eyes looked back at him from the mirror. He touched his host’s — his now — cheeks and found himself to be gentle to the eye. Somewhat cute, still touched by youth, if not classically attractive. Average height, but thin, almost sickly. His mirror image frowned. Looking over the memories, it seemed his host was malnourished when still a child, and although he now had plenty, he would forget to eat at times. That would have to be fixed. He enjoyed good food, and if everything of heavy taste upset his stomach, he would have to suffer through a plain diet. From the conditions he had noticed so far, this lifetime would be a holiday; a world to be indulged in and amuse himself. With how few were close to his host, he could be fully himself and not arouse any suspicions. A change in eating habits would not be noticed.

As he stretched himself, he tried to remember what wish his host had traded for the use of his body. While there was no formal exchange or ritual, he preferred to treat it as such. It was as fair as he could make the situation. Finding the memory, he smiled helplessly. His host truly was a simple child. Usually, last wishes would scream at his thoughts upon arrival, for they were often quite emotionally charged. Fate knows, he had had a dreadful migraine when he woke up in his last lifetime. Enraged screams for the blood of others weren’t a cheery memory to wake to. But his host only wished for someone to thank his patron. Having been saved, along with others, from a troubled childhood, and sponsored into following his dreams and education, his host had been quite lucky in life and that luck came solely from the charity of his anonymous patron.

Crawling back into bed, he yawned. This life, he could sleep without worry.


	3. Arc 1.1

Tristan was a very nice name. Elegant. Old-fashioned. It would be no hardship to answer to that name. Now, if only finding out the identity of his patron was as easy as that, he would dive back under the covers and never move a finger for the rest of his life. But reality wasn’t that understanding. He was stuck reviewing carefully every single memory his host had of his mysterious benefactor, after an online search had come up with nothing.

It was late afternoon. He drank hot cocoa lazily, wrapped in warmth, while outside it rained. Ah, the pleasures of modern life. It wasn’t 26th century luxury but it sufficed quite nicely after the medieval terror that had been his last lifetime.

Finding nothing in his memories, he frowned. For a good Samaritan, this patron of his was quite secretive. They might care about their privacy, but no news at all? He really hoped this didn’t end up to be a deep conspiracy. He had decided for this world to be his holiday, not a detective mystery. With his luck… Perhaps he should prepare for the worst as soon as possible.

The phone rang, and he picked it up despite the unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Tristan, it’s been so long! It’s Jane. My agent said you called me earlier,” a bubbly female voice spoke.

“Ah, yes I called. You didn’t have to get back to me so soon. It was nothing urgent,” he was actually quite happy at her fast response. He could at least extrapolate some answers from this.

He hated to small talk, but he needed to take his time with this. It wouldn’t do to cut off any chances of information due to bored rudeness. “I wanted to ask about our patron,” he finally started.

“Our what?”

The surprise in her words caught him off guard. He had been so sure there were other orphans like him. His memories couldn’t have been manipulated, could they?

“Our benefactor, the one who saved us and gave us money for housing and education?”

“Ah, him,” Oh, good, his memories were fine. “Sorry, that was so long ago, I was surprised. What about him?”

So long ago? Was she not sponsored still? Then, why was Tristan?

“Could you tell me what you know about them? I want to thank them for everything they’ve done.”

“You were always very kind, Tristan,” she seemed nostalgic. “I don’t know much though, but I still keep in touch with some of the others. Do you want their numbers?”

He thanked her profusely, as her image of Tristan would have done years back. All in all, not an unproductive call. And as she texted him a long list of numbers, he realized that Jane was more of a social butterfly that he could have ever hoped her to be. He wasn’t about to call each person in return. It was unlikely any of them knew anything, but their lifestyles could help him understand why Jane and Tristan were so different in treatment.

He opened his laptop and started hacking. It was a skill he had learned quite a few lifetimes ago and perfected over many years. It was too useful to be ignored, and while he wouldn’t call himself the best — especially compared to certain 26th century experts — he was quite proficient.

Reading what he had found, he wanted to nod in admiration. Perhaps, such good people really existed. Apparently, over the last decade, many orphans had been offered an opportunity for self-actualization that few people ever encountered. Many children of poor conditions, regardless of race, gender, age or ethnicity had been offered good housing and care until they reached adulthood, or finished college. This particular Good Samaritan had a preference for the arts it seemed, because after that, if children decided to sing, to dance, to write, to paint, to act or continue in some form of entertainment, they would be given help to establish themselves. The preferential levels of treatment did not end in the arts. For reasons he couldn’t identify, some newly established artists lost sponsorship the moment they reached financial independence.

However, all of them had more agency and control in their lives than Tristan did. Tristan lived in a good house and had an account with a good amount of savings. Money was added to his account every month. He didn’t pay rent or mortgage. Insurance, bills and taxes were paid for him. He only bought food and painted. His paintings were sold by a third party. That money was also added to his account. The others had been cut off at some point. Tristan hadn’t. He couldn’t find any others whose sponsorship continued past self-actualization. After checking for orphans with similar conditions to his, he found a possible candidate that might be like him, but he couldn’t be sure.

Jane had been one of those children who had been given the slip once reaching financial independence. That was six years ago. Now, she was a professional dancer and lived quite comfortably through her own effort.

He should look at this glass half-full. Perhaps, the reason why Tristan (and possibly that other like-Tristan orphan) was still being ‘kept’ was because he had never taken the initiative to take control of his life fully. A simple person like him would be satisfied with such a life and wouldn’t ask for more or the reasons why. Maybe, that was what the organizers in charge of this had thought when they saw him: a boy who simply wouldn’t grow up, so they had to take care of him.

There was no way that it was that simple. He couldn’t even convince himself. Fate hated him, and it usually hated his hosts. Why on Earth would a person of such wealth as to finance hundreds, if not thousands, of children keep it a secret? The good PR alone would be enviable, let alone the tax benefits from such charity.

Ugh, he was not a glass half-full person at all. He could still be proven wrong. Tristan died during sleep, likely due to arrhythmia or some other heart-related illness, before he switched through. If Tristan was important and had been kept under observation, why hadn’t anyone forced him to schedule regular doctor visits or helped with his condition through medicine or other means. A laissez-faire person like Tristan wouldn’t have even cared what the pills were for, as long as they came from the care of his patron’s selected doctors. Instead, beside being given everything to accommodate his chosen lifestyle, he had been free to do whatever he wished. Whether he killed himself due to an awful diet or lack of self-care, his patron or his organization didn’t mind.

Looking over some of the finished paintings that Tristan had hung in the living room, he started formulating a plan that would get him back some agency, before he could focus on figuring out the intentions of this organization. Hopefully, he was wrong, Fate had slid over to the love part of their hate-love relationship and the glass was half full.

Otherwise, he had a powerful control-freak of a stalker after his body and/or talents, thus he would need to prepare to run halfway across the world, but only after kindly thanking said stalker for paying him for the grooming of said body and/or talents.

His cocoa cup was cold and half-empty. He put it in the microwave to warm it up.

He hated running.


	4. Arc 1.2

It was a beautiful painting. “The Old House” was hung proudly in the Gotthard Gallery, the wing for emerging artists. It was bold, it was a mix of classic and modern. The lines and forms gave it a nostalgic feel, but the colours were bright, messy and fell all over in blues and greens and purples. “Tristan Lewis” was shown to be the artist in a big, neat font on the side of the frame. Quite a few people had stopped by to see it before moving on.

Another point for the Good Samaritan Team. The Crazy Stalker Team wasn’t doing so well. It had been two weeks since his arrival and no signs of his mysterious patron. No signs of any observing lackeys either. And now this. He stood in one of the best galleries for new and upcoming artists in the city. Tristan’s work was displayed there and all of his paintings had been there in the last year before being sold. Before this year, his work had been displayed at a more modest place before he got a good break and was now hot on the contemporary market.

Truly, “The Old House” was a surprising piece for someone of Tristan’s character. Perhaps there was more than simplicity in that child’s soul. Perhaps, everything but his paintings were simple in his eyes and of no import.

He looked at the time and left the gallery. The past few days had been spent visiting the doctor and galleries across the city to find Tristan’s work. There was nothing in Tristan’s memory of where they had been displayed, although he was always notified when they were bought. Tristan hadn’t cared much but this was now his only source of money. He had to become independent as soon as possible. He made a turn for the exit. He had to buy groceries before going home. As a result of his hurry, he almost ended up walking onto someone. Thankfully though, he stopped just before touching them. He was about to take a few steps back when that person, a woman, held his shoulder, as if to help him. “Careful there.”

She was tall, the same height as him. But maybe a decade older, mid-thirties. She had short brown hair and icy grey eyes. She was dressed smartly, in a navy pant suit. The cloth didn’t look like something that had been mass-produced. It looked tailored. He took a few steps back. This was a woman of means.

“Sorry about that,” he smiled as if he hadn’t been checking out how much money she held in her purse and waved a small goodbye before leaving.

He didn’t look back to see that woman not entering the gallery as she had originally intended but following him with her eyes as her hand felt warm.


	5. Arc 1.3

It was evening by the time he entered the house. He had needed to buy too many necessities that Tristan had not known existed. Not just food and spices but utilities and kitchen appliances. He hadn’t apprenticed under a master chef for his cooking skill to go to waste. He started putting everything in place before he could make himself a cup of tea. It was as he waited for the water to boil, that he understood why something felt out of place. Everything was just as he had left, he always made sure to discreetly check that these days but since he entered the house he felt like something was wrong. It was as if he was still in the grocery store, or in the gallery. Like the space wasn’t his. Like there were others watching him. He hadn’t felt that way in the morning when he left. Something had changed. Was the house bugged?

He removed the kettle and put the Ceylon bag in before grabbing some milk from the fridge. He kept his face composed even as he inwardly thanked his instincts for not going to shower as he would usually do after a long day out. As he started adding a generous amount of honey to his tea, the Crazy Stalker Team won by a landslide. He sat at the coffee table and opened his laptop before waiting for his tea to cool a bit. It was probably bugged too. He couldn’t deconstruct it to check what they had done to it. Tristan knew nothing about tech and his stalker wasn’t someone whose attentions he could tolerate without showing suspicious behaviour. What was it with this guy anyway? First, relative disinterest and now illegal spying? He searched for new films while he made plans to buy a new smaller laptop in cash secretly tomorrow. After finishing his tea and having watched an okay sci-fi film (he really wanted to see some true crime on stalkers just for the face his patron would make at the subject, but he couldn’t risk hinting he knew something at this point), he used various excuses to check on each room. All of them were bugged. He kept staring at his bathroom, hoping his patron/stalker valued at least some of his privacy. He wasn’t about to display himself for some pervert’s perusal. But he had to shower, if not tonight, then tomorrow morning. He also had to use the toilet at some point. He wanted to curse something fierce.

He walked in as he prayed, _please, don’t be a pervert._ There were cameras in the closet. _Please, don’t be more of a pervert than you already are._ He entered and… nothing. No weird feeling. No I’m-being-watched shiver. Braver now, he checked the bathroom quite openly. No cameras, no mics. Huh. What a pleasant surprise. His stalker had some decency. There were still cameras in the closet. Nope, his stalker was rightfully a pervert.

He started to prepare a bath. Today was quite stressful. He needed to relax. But first, he took his nightclothes in the bathroom. He would have to change there from now on. How troublesome.


	6. Arc 1.4

It had only taken a week for him to become used to the surveillance. Except for watching him constantly (with minor privacy allowed in the bathroom), his patron/stalker had done nothing else untoward. He had expected some type of contact by now. Wasn’t that how stalkers behaved toward their obsession? Didn’t they escalate their behaviour if ignored? To educate himself and his patron more on the subject, he gave in and watched a crime series with a stalker as one of the main characters the night before. But still nothing. No one crept into the night to steal him away. No one stopped him on the street to introduce himself. Heck, he even started visiting a café regularly just to let his patron have more opportunities to join him.

A random thought came to mind as he hacked into the security cameras at the café. Did he have a shy stalker? Was it enough just loving him from afar? At that, he shuddered as he imagined some other forms of love. He hadn’t touched a soul since he gained awareness, and he wasn’t about to change that. His host, as well, had seemed disinterested in both sexual and romantic love.

He sighed deeply. If it weren’t for that ridiculous wish of thanking Tristan’s patron, he would be in Canada now, in some deep-in-the-woods cabin with not a single other person to be seen for miles.

“Tristan?”

He looked up at the voice. A man who seemed to be approaching his fifties looked to be waiting for him.

“Sorry, Mr. West. I was lost in my thoughts,” he smiled apologetically as he invited his guest to sit in front of him.

The man, who seemed to be just as fit and tall as in his memories, sat with a chuckle. “It is nothing, my boy. I was still a bit surprised to see you outside.”

Understandable, for Tristan had been an introvert of the highest order and had wished to deliver his paintings in the safety of his own house. He, instead, preferred business to be done away from his private space, although his privacy now included about two dozen cameras shared with an unknown number of observers.

For the sake of his now fragile heart, it was better not to think about that. Onto more important matters. “I am trying to become a bit more sociable.”

“Although there was nothing wrong with your previous lifestyle, it is good that you are opening up to new experiences, Tristan. Perhaps, you’ll even like how we mere mortals live without paintings, no?” Mr. West replied in good humour.

Tristan resisted the urge to glare. This was probably not his patron. A stalker like him would have been irritated to see his possession socialize with others.

“No chance,” he even allowed himself to pout childishly at the thought of a life without painting. West laughed at his expression.

“So what have you brought me this time, my boy? You said you were starting a new series?”

He passed over the cylindrical container holding his painting. “Yes. This piece is called “The Good Queen.” I am currently working on two others with a similar theme. But I wanted this to be displayed as soon as possible,” he then followed a bit more hesitantly. “Is that OK?”

West frowned as he carefully put the painting in his bag. “That’s quite unusual. Wouldn’t you want the series to be displayed together for it to be coherent?”

He pretended to fidget for a bit. “I can’t wait for this one. It’s different from my other work. It’s special.”

“Different how?”

Tristan had scanned a picture of “The Good Queen” for this purpose. Viewing a fragile paining in such a public place was idiocy, so he had prepared an image before his agent could view it critically at the comfort of his own home.

West took it and looked at it once, before his eyebrows rose surprised. “This… is certainly different.”

And it was. Tristan Lewis had never painted a person. He simply had felt no inspiration due to his own lack of experience with people. But it wasn’t just the subject that was different. Tristan’s style had been bright, happy, exciting. While his preferred darker tones and a more traditional touch.

He was not about to pretend to paint someone else’s work. His skill over many years, and his own preference for the arts had made him an excellent forger, but he had his own pride as an artist. He was sure his host would have agreed with him. Rather than steal someone’s muse and spirit, he would create a new legacy, under a new Tristan Lewis.

But the person he chose to paint… His feelings remained a bit complex on that.

“I’ll see what I can do about your request, but… is this someone you know?” West looked a bit conflicted as he asked.

That didn’t sound like jealousy that he painted another person. “No, I don’t think so. I saw her in a dream.”

West nodded at that, looking relieved. Did West work personally with his patron/stalker? Why would he have been worried that Tristan had a potential interest in someone then? He had assumed West was not informed. His host had asked him before, and West had seemed sincere in his ignorance. Had he simply been a much more skilled liar in the past or had things changed recently?

“I see. Was there anything else you wanted before I took this with me, my boy?”

He looked carefully for a reaction as he spoke. He explained his wish to become more independent financially and otherwise. Perhaps, his stalker preferred to control him much more subtly.

But the man was relaxed as he answered. “I’m relieved to hear you say that. You never seemed interested in anything outside your work. You used to feed every stereotype of the hermit artist, you know?” he laughed. “You have filled out a bit, too.”

Okay, that was not what he expected at all. Was his patron that much of a failure of a stalker?!


	7. Arc 1.5

“The Good Queen” had been received quite well these past few months. So had “Her Husband” and “Her Child.” Tristan still did not know what strange muse had possessed him that he was making an entire series on her. He often did paint memories of his previous lives. Sometimes, he even displayed them for public viewing. But it was of lives and worlds he was fond of. And he certainly wasn’t fond of the four years he spent pretending to be an arrogant psychopathic tyrant. But since the day he took over for Tristan, since the day he decided to paint in his own style, her last vision stood out to him. She had surprised him then. Had thought of her as too good a woman for someone like his host. He could count the times they spoke to each other while he stayed there in one hand. He had even assumed that she looked down on the King. But the end showed differently. It was her life and her choice. But he still found it a pity that she had granted her heart to someone undeserving.

As he looked over the display, Tristan smiled. His previous host would have been enraged at the paintings. To have been reduced from the centrepiece of a kingdom to the Queen’s obviously lacking lover. “The Good Queen” was one of his better portraits. There she stood, regal and dignified, navy blue dress and white cloak shying under the freezing wind as she looked over her kingdom. “Her Husband,” in comparison, showed a man a few years her elder, drinking wine in his bedchambers as he prepared for sleep. “Her Child,” showed a young boy, with his mother’s black hair and his father’s blue eyes, pouting as he tried to read a book much too advanced for him. The Prince had been very young when he had arrived, and he had kept his interactions with him limited to his studies. Even then, he had planned to leave, and he wished not to leave for that child memories of the man that was not his father, and even less of the worthless father the King had been.

“They are extraordinary,” a familiar voice roused him from his thoughts.

“Is that so?” he smiled. Brigitte Pruitt was a sponsor of the Gallery and visited quite often. He had met her at the entrance when he was investigating his patron, and she had become a fan of Tristan Lewis’ work ever since the introduction of “The Good Queen.”

“Alone, each is a splendid piece but together… they are extraordinary. Marvellous even,” she continued. She had always been rather free with her praise, at least in their short acquaintanceship. But from the way the Gallery’s curator had looked at her every time she complimented it, back when “The Good Queen” was first displayed, she might as well have sprouted flowers on the spot.

“Thank you,” he smiled modestly. He would be able to show confidence and even arrogance, only once he reached the international stage. That was still a long way off. For now, he was simply a budding artist whose experiment with a new style became much better-received than expected.

“Could we expect any new additions to the series?”

He had actually thought about adding to it, perhaps a few more pieces of her quarters, her maids and staff. But these three were enough. These were the significant people in her life. More would be superfluous.

“No. There would be no meaning otherwise.”

“I see,” she said in the tone of someone who did not, in fact, see. But she didn’t become discouraged by it, instead she went on to ask something that he had been expecting since he learned of her name. “Would you be open to discussing more of your work over coffee? Or tea? There’s a lovely café just around the corner.”

Tristan, of course, accepted and her general demeanour brightened quite obviously right after. He wanted to laugh. What was she, a puppy?

The café was small but quaint, obviously styled with an artistic touch and the gallery’s visitors in mind.

The tea was okay, the dessert better and the conversation smooth. In the two hours they spent there, they spoke altogether of three topics: his work, his art, his paintings. Basically, they talked of nothing more than what she had suggested in the beginning. Every question or sentence of his that moved beyond that was manoeuvred swiftly and decisively back onto safe waters.

By the end, he had enjoyed it a great deal, but he was surprised to see how she hadn’t been bored beyond her tears. She was informed, cultured and seemed to love every word that came out of his mouth, but she was no artist. Her appreciation for art was learned, not felt or experienced. If his guess was correct, she was more patient than he had imagined, even with three months of casual acquaintance behind them.

Just as he waited for her to continue further, she stood up. “Thank you very much for this. I don’t often get to spend such time relaxing, especially when it comes to my favourite passion. I’ll have to go now, however. A prior meeting awaits.”

He stood up less confidently. “Ah yes, of course. I hope we can do this again sometime.”

She smiled and nodded, picked up her coat and purse and then left.

He sat down, glaring at her back as she exited. Was he wrong? Was she not his patron/stalker? She was a Pruitt, an old powerful family. She had the wealth and means to finance an enterprise such as that of his patron and keep her identity secret. She obviously loved the arts, and was a sponsor and/or shareholder for many of the businesses that displayed his work and the work of other artists under his patron’s employ. She was single, and seemed obsessed with his paintings, which could easily translate to him. It was a perfect conclusion really.

But she left. Here he was, outwardly open and willing, had even freaking hinted a few times, only to be rejected, moved back onto the safe topic of his work, and then left at a romantic café, as if this was a… a chaperoned first date?!

Where was the perverseness, the sick intentions, the hidden peeping?

Instead, he had spent two hours at a place she had invited him, eating food that she recommended within his price range, talking about a subject he much loved and then left with a promise for a next time? He had been waiting months to meet his stalker, not the perfect gentlemen —uh, perfect lady.

He picked up his own coat. He needed to drink.


	8. Arc 1.6

Of course, drinking outside was not an option. He disliked socializing at the best of times, let alone when drunk and likely to be unwillingly accompanied by even more drunks at some bar. So here he was, raiding the cabinets of his kitchen for wine, all the while mentally cursing his patron/stalker.

He was well into his second bottle when drinking started to become boring. So he went to his secret stash of chocolate — _a secret stash of chocolate was a must, that was just common sense_ — and grabbed all sorts of expensive chocolaty things. It occurred to him, at that moment, that his secret stash was not so secret anymore due to the cameras.

“Stupid pervert,” he ground out, deciding then and there to move his stash somewhere safer at the next opportunity, which was as soon as he became sober.

He took the chocolate and the wine, placed them on the table next to the very soft sofa, before picking up some blankets and making sure he became a drunk human burrito with a sweet tooth.

Scrolling through the channels, he hoped to find something interesting to hold his attention, but he ended up listening to the news. Ah, it seemed the mayoral elections were coming up. Why was he listening to this again?

“…, while favoured candidate Stephen Pruitt is the chairman of the Pruitt Foundation. He has stated that if he were to win, he would leave the Foundation in the hands of his niece, Brigitte Pruitt, who is known for her charitable contributions,” the anchorwoman spoke.

Well, that answered _that_ question. Brigitte Pruitt continued to be a surprise, though. At first, when he had checked the people with the money and the means to be his patron, he had thought her brother, parents, or uncle to be more viable candidates. However, her uncle, although gay, appeared to be happily married; her parents were both unhappily married but each had a string of lovers that they made little effort to hide from each-other; while the brother was painfully straight. Tristan had even thought that maybe James Pruitt’s ever-growing list of unsuccessful relationships was a cover for his more perverse undertakings but his personality appeared to be too impatient and petty to be as successful and anonymous as his patron was.

So, Brigitte Pruitt, had not been a candidate until he met her for the second time in the Gallery. He had been expecting for his stalker to make a move for a month and was losing hope, when she appeared. Smart, patient and rich. More importantly, interested in him —or _“his work,”_ as she would say. She then became a prime candidate. But nothing seemed to suggest her actual involvement. His research had not shown anything more beyond what everyone else knew. Former heiress of the Pruitt fortune, left her family home after a conflict with her parents. Her brother hated her for being passed up as an heir, even though he was older. Her parents had seemed to have favoured her even though she was a woman in their otherwise traditional household. Quite enlightened of them. Everyone only had good words for Brigitte: genius, beautiful, self-made and of perfect lineage. Really, one couldn’t ask for anything more. Tristan had despaired for a while before finding out about her biweekly meetings with a psychologist. A _“complete disinterest in other people”_ and _“underdeveloped empathy”_ seemed like just the things to describe someone psychotic enough to deviate into stalking if she were to suddenly find an obsession.

But with the way the meeting earlier that day had gone, she appeared to be even more patient than him. Perhaps he should just literally thank her and make a run for it. Waiting for a confession of her being his patron seemed to be plain impossible.

“Ugh, stupid woman,” she had brightened like a puppy when he had accepted her invitation. “More like a stupid puppy.” _Yes, that was right,_ he thought, as he drank. She was not a woman but a puppy— no, no, a wolf pretending to be a puppy, or was it a sheep? He couldn’t quite remember the expression. Whatever. He needed more chocolate.


	9. Arc 1.7

He woke up with a headache he hadn’t felt in years. The lights were too bright, the noise of the TV too loud and his neck felt numb. He had passed out on the sofa. What had he been thinking? Tristan didn’t drink. His body didn’t have the built-up tolerance that his previous host had.

He got up. He had to clean up and brush his teeth before his stomach started protesting his overindulgence. His memories were somewhat blurry but… had he called his patron a pervert and a puppy in a house full of cameras and mics that reported directly to said patron?

Face red, Tristan resisted the urge to dive back under the blankets for cover. He hadn’t been so embarrassed in years.

* * *

“Here. Careful, it’s still hot.”

His lips had twitched the first, the second and the third time this had happened. But a doting service was the easiest thing to get used to, so now he accepted the cup of tea made to his taste as if it was his due.

Brigitte —for she had become Brigitte once she had bought every single art piece that had his name on it— took the seat next to him, commandeered his plate after putting hers aside, and started to put on plastic gloves, so she could debone his mackerel in earnest.

 _Really,_ he thought as he placed one of the ‘cleaned’ pieces of fish in his mouth, _one couldn’t make these things up._

Six more months had passed in this manner. During that time, he had been courted as if he were a noble lady in the Victorian Ages. Because, make no mistake, this was a _courtship._

It had started with coffee after a gallery exhibit. A week later, she had asked him out for lunch to show her care as his fan. Afterwards, she had invited him to watch a new exhibit uptown to ask him for his professional thoughts on some art she wished to purchase. Later that night, they had exchanged numbers, so she could _“more easily consult”_ with him in the future. Barely another month had passed, and they had gone through the whole cycle again, but this time for calls: first emailing, then texting, then audio calls and finally video chats. Now, they ate dinner together at least twice a week, while they Face-timed every other day.

He wondered if instead of working at her company she spent her days planning out these elaborate ‘accidental’ meet-ups and coming up with excuses for the next meeting. Because that was what they were: plans and excuses. Regardless of what Ms. Pruitt claimed, there was just no way he and her shopped at the same grocery store! She really had to put more thought on some of her more spontaneous, and therefore silly, ideas. One couldn’t meet someone accidentally three times a week and have a whole day planned out for them to spend together. _One just couldn’t, Brigitte,_ he tried to will this into her thoughts through gaze alone, but she was too busy carefully taking pin bones out of cheap fish, because he had mentioned craving it.

He speared some salad on his fork, while he waited for her to be done.

In addition, regardless of what he said, she decisively stuck to the schedule in her head. It was almost as if she found some manual on how to build a relationship written Victorian-style which she followed religiously step by step. Looking at that silly love-struck puppy in human form happily sending over the plate with boneless bite-sized fish pieces to him, he thought that it was likely that was exactly what happened: some idiot on the internet had posted a love advice manual, and she believed it verbatim.

One of these days, he is going to call her in a panic, to tell her about the ‘weird cameras’ he ‘had just found’ in his closet. He really wants to know what excuses she will have prepared then.

“Thanks,” he offered her a soft smile, and he could almost see her tail wagging excitedly behind her back. He stared at her face. She coolly nodded, not a hint of red on her skin. Really, if it weren’t for her silly actions, he might think her an ice queen.

“I actually wanted to ask for a favour,” he started once they had moved onto dessert. Peach sorbet after a fish dinner. She really knew his taste. “I want to find someone.”

Ha! There was an almost-frown on her face! It quickly smoothed out, but he continued, happier at the slight victory. “When I was younger, someone sponsored me, took me away from a… bad living environment,” that not-frown deepened in concern. Faker. She probably had saved Tristan’s file in her office for years. “They saved me. I want to find them. Tell them how grateful I am.”

“Why can’t you? Has something happened to them?” Brigitte asked.

“I don’t know who they are,” he answered, sounding a bit ashamed. _Brigitte Pruitt._ “I don’t know where I can find them,” _Sitting right next to him._ “… or even what they do.” _Take out their stalking target on elaborate not-dates._

“Did they work under an anonymous service or organization?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” _She created the damn organization._

“Hmm,” she looked to be deep in thought. “This might be difficult. Have you seen them before? Do you at least know what they looked like?”

“No.” _Yes. Pale skin, chestnut brown hair, icy grey eyes. Always dressed formally._ _A true beauty,_ he added reluctantly.”But I know that there were others like me. I can give you their numbers if it would help.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she answered. _There are no others like you,_ her eyes seemed to say.

Not liking the intensity of that gaze, he focused on finishing the sorbet for the rest of dinner.


	10. Arc 1.8

She couldn’t remember a time in her life when closing her eyes meant anything else but his smile, his laughter, his whispers. Her dreams were filled with him. She had assumed most of her childhood that that was how everyone woke up: sweet voice singing in their ears, arms stretched to reach for another. Her world had been destroyed when her parents had learned of her dreams. They had called her singer a figment of her imagination. A lie. An illusion. Something to grow out of. But she grew up. She was smarter, wiser, stronger than any of her peers. Than any of her elders. Than anyone she had ever met. And amidst the pride, the applause showered at her parents for her genius, her education and her manners, she stood alone. The dreams never stopped. He was still there, just beyond the waking world, whispering, singing, waiting. Gone were the excuse of lies and illusions, now they called him an illness, a disorder. A defence mechanism to deal with the loneliness induced by her intelligence and maturity.

But they were wrong. Her family, her peers, her psychologists, had never understood. Being alone was not the same as being lonely. Not for her. For how could she be lonely when he was still there? Dancing before her eyes every night? Taking her with him even as she stumbled through the steps and couldn’t sing a note to save her life? She was not lonely. She chose to stay alone. The waking world had nothing half as entrancing as him. No one had ever come close to his elegance, to his talents, to his wits and heart.

She left her family the moment she reached adulthood. It was a scandal. Her social class had a field day with the gossip and the tabloids printed claim after outrageous claim. The proud Pruitt heiress had left. They spoke of it as if it was something unexpected, something obscene. Even her parents had been shocked. But how could they have expected any differently, when they spoke of him as if he were a curse? How could they when they tried to find ways to remove him from her dreams? How dare they expect her to stay, when they spent years persuading her that he was her one flaw, her one weakness, her one mistake?!

She was not flawless. She was arrogant, stubborn, and apathetic. Her experience with sex, with both men and women, had made apparent her absence of desire for human touch. Her lack of intimate confidants, her distance with her parents and her outright disdain for her brother, had made even more apparent the coldness of her nature. But few married for love when they could marry for wealth or influence and even fewer commented on her apathy but with praise for her decisiveness and strength.

She had many flaws, but he wasn’t one of them.

Truly, if it weren’t for him, for the warmth he spoke of, she would have remained a Pruitt. She wouldn’t have spent the following years building up from scratch everything she had already had as her birthright. She needed the space, the lack of oversight that allowed her to do foolishness such as this: over a decade of financing children, sponsoring artists both new and accomplished, in search of him. She had not had even half a hope that she would find him. But she had to try. She couldn’t do otherwise. She wouldn’t forgive herself.

So as she built as many non-profit organizations as she could, as she tried to spread them all over the globe, she would read over the weekend, every weekend, the profiles of every child who expressed an interest in the arts. For he loved the arts. In her dreams, he was always dancing, singing, painting, writing…

It had been futile. She had perfected the process of selection as much as she dared with the fear of losing him accidentally amidst the red tape. And still nothing. Over ten years, tens of thousands of final candidates and nothing.

If she spent more time thinking of what she was doing, searching for a dream, _a dream_ , she would grow insane.

So she learned to dance. Her talent was non-existent and her grace lacking.

She learned to paint. She burned the resulting canvas every time.

She learned to sing. She learned to write. To act. To play the violin, the flute, the piano.

She was failing. She promised him in her dreams to find him. And she was failing.

She was about to enter the gallery. One of her final candidates had just debuted, and she needed to check his work before she could eliminate him. A boy, no, a young man almost crashed onto her. She caught his shoulder before she could understand what she was doing. “Careful there.”

He was of average height. A decade younger, looked no older than 25. Messy black hair and warm brown eyes. Green shirt and black trousers. He was beautiful.

“Sorry about that,” his voice was soft, with the accent of someone who lived in many cultures. She couldn’t speak as he waved an awkward goodbye before hurrying out.

She followed him with her eyes down the stairs. Her hand felt warm.

_“I found you,” she said to him that night._

_“You’re late,” he answered._


	11. Arc 1.9

It was the first time her beloved had invited her to his home. The fact that it was a home she had bought for him made it all the sweeter. This had actually happened sooner that she had planned for. She had hoped the first time she would visit would be as a lover, not as a friend. They had yet to even hold hands. Up till now she had only sneakily hugged him as if she were a particularly enthusiastic greeter. Hopefully, her stiffness the first few times hadn’t given away her inexperience with hugs.

She was currently setting the table, while her dear finished the last touch ups on their dinner. He had cooked for them. This would be the first time she would eat her beloved’s cooking.

Ah truly, things were going better than she hoped. She hadn’t scared him away yet. In fact, after the first few weeks when he would at times stare at her as if daring her to do something, he had grown used to her attention, and the fact that she would not, in fact, do anything. She had been very conflicted at the time. His suspicion had been very cute, so cute, she just wanted to run her hands through his hair and assure him that everything would be alright. She had also been very angry. Her beloved seemed to fear intimacy, and seemed to expect every gift, every act of care to bite him. She suspected that was due to his childhood. His father was — _luckily for him_ — dead, so she had no place to direct her anger. She could only show him, slowly, carefully, that she was different. That she would love him as he deserved to be loved and more. So while her beloved’s attempts to tempt her lately had been a test on her patience and control, she had to continue with her plan, until the day when there was no suspicion in his eyes and no apprehension in the lines of his body.

“Food’s ready.”

Her beloved really knew how to shake her resolve. He had a lovely white apron on and it spelled in bright red font: “Don’t kiss the cook. You might fall in love.” She couldn’t stop herself from looking up at his lips every single time she read it.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll go and get it,” she told him as she went for the door. She really wanted to see who dared interrupt her time with her beloved.

A middle-aged man appeared behind the door. He was just about to speak when he saw who was on the doorway, took a few steps back and glaringly checked the house number.

“You have the right place, West,” she pointed, although she really wished for the opposite.

“Ah, sorry. I thought Tristan… um, who are you?”

He must have really been shocked to see her if he spoke so stupidly.

“Tristan’s friend.” _For now,_ she added in her mind.

“Oh, good. That’s good.” he continued and then made to enter, but she didn’t move from her place on the door.

“I’m here to meet Tristan,” he hinted.

“I can see that.”

His patience wasn’t much, it seems. “Can you move aside?”

“No.”

“No?” he seemed shocked at her nerve. “Tristan—”

“—can see you tomorrow.” She finished his sentence for him and closed the door on his face. She locked it for good measure.

When Brigitte returned to the kitchen, the table had been rearranged and set for three, while she had set it for two.

“Was someone at the door?” her beloved asked.

“No one important.” It wasn’t a lie, although he was obviously expecting West. After all, West was not important, or at least he better not be for his own sake.

“Strange. Mr. West is never late,” The doorbell rang again.

This time, she would do more than shut the door on his face. Her murderous intentions must have been noticed by her beloved, for he suddenly ran for the door yelling. “I’ll check it!”

_Calm Brigitte, calm. Don’t kill your beloved’s friends. That’s bad. Killing his friends is bad. He’ll cry._

* * *

His plan to have Brigitte caught up in a lie was a bust. West had no idea who she was. But his self-appointed side-task of testing her patience seemed to be going splendidly. Brigitte seemed to be cutting the steak as if she wished she was cutting something — _someone_ — else. Her staring at West left no illusions as to who that someone was.

“And how did you meet again?” The man in question appeared to be _slightly_ disapproving of his _friend._

“At the gallery exhibit for “The Good Queen”,” he answered in Brigitte’s place.

“So you are Tristan’s colleague then?” West’s tone, obviously directed at her alone, seemed to be expecting her to be anything but.

“No,” she didn’t elaborate.

“A critic?” Same negative answer. “Curator?” “Sponsor?”

“A fan,” she answered.

“A… fan.” West put as much derision as he could in that one word. “How old are you again?”

Oh, if eyes could kill.

“36.”

And that was when West became suicidal. “You look older.”

Tristan caught her hand before Brigitte could grab the knife and hurried to placate her.

“Please, Mr. West, you and Brigitte are my closest friends. Could you get along with each-other?”

It worked pretty well, except now Brigitte seemed divided between utter joy at being his closest—well _anything_ really, and outraged that West had also made the cut.

“Oh, Tristan,” Mr. West seemed touched at his words. They did actually count as his closest friends here. After all, these two were the only people he saw at least semi-regularly. “But you really should get out more my boy, so you can make more friends.” And as if he hadn’t made it obvious enough, he stared at her. “Your own age.”

Tristan tightened his hold around her in a soothing motion. Seeing her placated, he decided to be nice for once.

“Come on now. Be nice. Brigitte has re-bought almost all of my paintings. She is very dedicated.”

Both of them stared at him surprised, and he pinked under the attention. What was so special about what he said? It was true that she was dedicated to his work, even if as an extension of her interest in his person.

He coughed. “Anyway, one of you is my agent, the other a buyer, so act nice for that alone?”

West seemed to be having an epiphany as he remembered exactly who his most prolific buyer was. As an agent, he had always dealt with a middle man, but he knew in whose hands Tristan’s paintings ended up in every time they were sold.

He resisted the urge to blush as he realized who he had just sniped against. When he had first learned the name of “The Good Queen”‘s buyer, he had been shocked. A Pruitt really? What on Earth was she doing at a small gallery like that? Shouldn’t she be squandering her wealth on Rembrandt’s and Van Gogh’s ?

Looking at how Tristan still hadn’t let go of her hand — _he was still a bit stupefied he had fought a Pruitt,_ — and how satisfied she seemed at the gesture, he started to wonder whether Tristan had sold himself for fame. He had never thought it possible, but… they were freaking holding hands in front of his eyes.

Tristan couldn’t understand why West was looking at him so weirdly. He had thought the man would have choked at having snarked at someone so _prestigious_. Why was he staring like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing?

Ignoring it, he grabbed the glass of water with his left hand, since his right was still holding… holding… Brigitte’s hand. He removed his hand as if it was burned and blushed up a storm, ashamed that West had seen him so discomfited. By the self-satisfied gleam in her eye, along with a bit of loss, he understood that Brigitte had not forgotten as he had. She had just… decided to keep them holding hands in front of witnesses?!

He tried to hide behind the glass of water. She was really a pervert. Had no shame whatsoever. Who knows what West was thinking about them?


	12. Arc 1.10

Baths were lovely. All the stress and worries of the day would just melt away under the steam. He could fall asleep any moment. Sleep actually sounded nice right about now. He got out, lightly dried himself and tied the towel around his hips. He felt as if he was forgetting something as he walked out the door. The shiver that came with being watched reminded him exactly what he had forgotten. He ran back into the bathroom and shut the door forcefully as if that would protect him from her eyes. What was he thinking? Walking practically naked and dripping wet for all cameras to see? Was he trying to provide her with material for her wet dreams?

Ugh, let alone what happened, but how was he going to leave the bathroom? He had forgotten his clothes on the bed. He had no clothes in the bathroom beside the laundry, and he really did not wish to wear unclean clothes. Besides, it would look mighty suspicious, especially after the way he had run back into the bathroom.

Tristan sat down on the floor, back to the door, irritated. After being so careful, he had ended up prancing around like this. Most people wouldn’t care, but his education, his attitude toward such things was more conservative. His home world wasn’t as casual about nudity and relationships, and he couldn’t help but hold a more traditional view towards it himself, although, in a completely different manner than this weird patriarchal world at least.

He could feel his cheeks redden at what Brigitte would think once she saw the recording, if she had not seen it already.

He had enough. He wanted to wait some more before he exposed her, but he had to get back at her for this. He had been getting too comfortable in this house.

* * *

That night, Brigitte Pruitt returned from work annoyed and tired. The board had been so utterly dense and ludicrous that she had only been able to sneak in a quick call during lunch with her beloved. She grabbed some ibuprofen for her headache before sitting up on her bed. This was the best part of her day, every day — except for when she could be in the physical presence of her beloved, of course. She started looking through the recording from the cameras at Tristan’s house. As she saw him go about his day, she began to relax. Ah, there was no better medicine than his lovely existence. A few hours in, she saw him go for a bath before he would sleep. It was the same every day; her dear was a creature of routine and habit. She moved the recording forward for an hour. Ah, just in time for her beloved to get out of the bathroom all naked— _Naked?!_

Brigitte spluttered incomprehensibly at the screen. She rewound the time a bit and waited with bated breath for the hallucination that her eyes _must_ have seen. But there it was. Her beloved, in all his beauty, coming out of the bathroom with just a short towel covering his hips. She zoomed the screen subconsciously. His skin was covered in shivers at the cool air of the bedroom, and still painted with a few water droplets. His hair was wet and gloriously dripping on his face and shoulders. His cheeks and upper body were pinked from the steam and his thin waist… Brigitte had to stop the video to grab a box of tissues.

It then continued. Her beloved took a few steps into the room, in all his sublime perfection (she would definitely cut parts of this recording and make a montage that she would guard furiously for the rest of her life before burning every other copy and record of it) and then he ran back into the bathroom. She hesitated for a moment. That was unexpected after such a promising start. He couldn’t have…? She studied his facial expression just before he started running. Two words: horrified realization. She was hoping against hope that he hadn’t discovered the cameras. She looked through the next few minutes. He walked out, calm and in no hurry. No horror. No realization on his face. Still naked and wet. He picked up the clothes laid out on the bed and went back into the bathroom to change.

Brigitte covered her eyes. Her beloved, no matter how he pretended, was brilliant in all manner of ways. Her equal, if not her better. He hid behind his art and a facade of innocence and inexperience but at times… at times his lips would upturn in mischievousness and a wicked gleam would enter his eyes that promised she would be suffering for the next few hours. Usually, he would end up testing her patience and control with his ‘unintentional’ flirting and seduction attempts whenever such mischievousness was shown. Sometimes, she would be assuming that they had walked one step closer together, while he pulled a ‘Mr. West’ between them just to frustrate her. Truly, her beloved was frightening and so very, very cute. Like a kitten brandishing its claws. Or a bunny nipping at your fingers. Ah, she would get overwhelmed with the cuteness of his very existence at times.

But now… Now that he was acting so very normal after a scare… He had probably known about the cameras for a long time, if not since the beginning. It was likely that he even knew she was the reason for them or that she was his patron as well. Well, how many times could she lie saying that she hadn’t found his patron before it started sounding idiotic even to her own ears? Last time she had apologized for this, she could swear she had seen an aborted eye-roll from her beloved.

She should better be prepared for lying like crazy in the morning. Deny, deny, deny. That had been her policy until now and it had yet to fail, even though it was looking more like her beloved had allowed for it not to fail.

Decision made, she started rewatching the part where he just came out of the bathroom, tissues at hand and on her nose.

And if she were wrong, if he did not know about the cameras and this was just a coincidence… she was going to send people to install cameras and mics in the bathroom first thing in the morning. Screw her dying morals, she had already seen the forbidden fruit once, and she wouldn’t be kept from it again.


	13. Arc 1.11

The morning had been going well. Too well in fact. Her beloved hadn’t torn the facade they were keeping between them yet. Had he decided to forgive himself for the gaffe of parading his delectable body for her greedy eyes to feast upon? She hoped so. Removing the cameras would be impossible at this point. Once someone receives an inch, they will want a mile. And she had taken more than an inch. But from what she knew of her beloved, would he truly forgive and forget?

Thinking of the determined walk he had taken through his bedroom the second time, — _and what a lovely, wet and naked walk it had been_ — she could feel a cloud of suffering coming to cover up her happiness.

The phone rang. Brigitte messed up her signature on the project she was approving. It was the personalized ringtone she had set for her beloved. She reached for the phone and as she pressed to respond, held it as if it was going to explode on her face.

“Hello, belo— _‘cough’_ — Tristan. Hello, Tristan.” Oops. Slip of the tongue.

“Brigitte!” her dear whispered fiercely. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do!”

She almost had a heart attack at the amount of panic in his voice. Quickly, she connected to the house cameras through her laptop. Seeing him safe calmed her, before she realized the mess she was in.

 _Fuck._ That cloud was looking more and more like a storm cloud. “What is wrong? Are you safe?” Acting was perhaps the only art she was passable at, though she suspected that it was due to how good she was at lying. Since her beloved wanted to play in a drama, she wouldn’t deny him.

“There’s… there’s a camera at home. I found it… in the kitchen. Brigitte, is someone… spying on me?”

Truly, if she hadn’t been the one to place said cameras and if she didn’t have a live feed to look at right now, she would believe he was in severe distress. _Naughty, naughty beloved._

“Calm down, Tristan. First, leave the house, OK? We don’t know how dangerous this is yet, so stay outside and next to groups of people. Have you called the police?”

“No, not yet. I called you first.”

Although it was probably a ploy, the fact that her beloved would call her first when he felt threatened warmed her heart.

“I am on my way. Keep me on the line. Do not hang up,” she grabbed her keys and made for the elevator. “I am going to alert the police to come at your address.”

“… Okay,” He added after some surprised silence. Didn’t expect her to bring this to the authorities now, did he? But he wanted to act in a drama, and she would deliver in full.

God, why did he enchant her so, even when he behaved so naughtily? She would have to punish him.

* * *

Only as cops started to barricade his house in yellow tape did he start believing that Brigitte had called actual, real police officers. And as he saw her politely forcing the police captain to treat the ‘crime’ done to him more seriously than a home invasion, he came to the conclusion that Brigitte liked to live dangerously.

After solving the issue with the captain, she hugged him for the tenth time that day alone, taking advantage to touch all of his upper body in the name of giving him comfort. At that time, he came to the more appropriate conclusion that she was insane.

“Are you sure you are fine?” she asked again.

Dammit, why did he decide to put on the role of a traumatized boy in the phone call again? Ah yes, he wanted to scare her. But now he was stuck with her arms around his waist, and he couldn’t move them forcefully without breaking character. “I am okay,” it came out as a whisper, even as he gritted his teeth throughout it all.

She grabbed his chin, raising his head to meet her eyes. He expected laughter, or at least some amusement hidden deep within those grey pools, but he only saw harsh seriousness. “You will tell me if something is wrong.” She might have wanted to phrase that as a question, but it came out as a command. He watched her stupefied for a moment. She didn’t seem to be talking about the play they were both putting on.

“Will you?” she continued, her grip on his chin lightening, her eyes softening with true worry.

He looked at the ground unable to answer the emotions in her sight and tone.

“Excuse me,” a policewoman broke the moment between them, giving Tristan a chance to escape Brigitte’s inquiring eyes. But not her hands. Although he tried to move away at the interruption, her right hand stayed hooked to his waist, keeping him close to her own body.

Detective Harris, as she introduced herself, politely ignored their interaction and started questioning him on the ‘crime’ that had brought them all here. He answered her questions slowly and described how he came about the cameras with the appropriate amount of fear and indignation for a victim such as he.

“Do you have any suspicions on who might be behind this?” she asked.

He bit his lip and glanced at her uncertain and filled with apprehension.

The policewoman seemed to look vaguely happier at the hint of a suspect. She continued nudging him. “Anyone at all. An ex or a friend who might be too close?” At this she looked at Brigitte, who of course, didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed at the correct guess. “Or even an acquaintance or colleague. Usually, stalkers as obsessive as this, try to make contact with their victims. So if you can think of anyone, please let us know, so we know to take steps against them.”

“I have a patron,” Tristan finally relented or at least pretended to do so. “He, um, I think it is a _him_ , has sponsored me anonymously over the years. I have never even met him. I have been trying to figure out who he is but I… I don’t know much. Um, my agent might know more. I can give you his number.”

After Detective Harris left, Brigitte looked quizzically at him.

“You think your patron is a man?” she asked.

He put on a ‘slightly embarrassed but determined’ expression.

“Yes. I mean, it is more likely for someone so…” he pretended to think hard for the right word. “… so perverted to be a male, right?”

She looked offended at his assumption. “It isn’t good to fall prey to such presumptions, Tristan. What if it is a woman and you put down your guard around her thinking it’s safe? You could get hurt.”

He barely stopped himself from gaping at her. She was not insulted that he had called her perverted to her face and too little of a woman for the gender norms of this world, but that he might get hurt from the hypothetical criminal because of his hypothetical claims that they both knew to be false?

Tristan wanted to shout at her. _Lady, the only person on this planet who is currently a threat to me has her arms around my body. Guess who that is?!_

“Besides,” Brigitte continued as if Tristan wasn’t trying to incinerate her with his gaze alone. “We don’t know yet if your patron is really behind this. I haven’t found out who they are yet,” she looked apologetic for having failed to find his patron’s identity.

 _Look into a mirror. Congratulations, you found them._ “I really hope it is not him that placed the cameras,” he confessed to her.

She raised an eyebrow at his intentional use of the male pronoun. “And why not?”

“He has been so nice to me until now. Saved me from a terrible house and gave me an education. If he did that just so he… just so he could humiliate me like this,” he waved towards the house, before making his point clear. “I would hate him forever.”

Brigitte grimaced at the word “hate” before she could stop herself. She was his obsessed, perverted patron after all.

An officer called him over to sign some documents, so he made his escape from her grabby hands while she was still in shock over his declaration. Point made, he had to hide a smile as he was told where to sign, finally having some payback for last night.

Brigitte saw her beloved happily playing a distraught victim after having shaken her world with his _oh-so-innocent_ words and revealed a smile that promised punishment for such naughty behaviour. Looking at the police captain she had forced onto the scene, she thought of a plan that would place her beloved in her mercy.

Thinking of the lovely days ahead, she walked up to him to discuss some issues that poor, traumatized Tristan shouldn’t be forced to endure.

Several meters away, Tristan stopped signing for a moment. He just had a shiver go up his spine, feeling like prey that was about to be devoured. He… had to have imagined it, right?


	14. Arc 1.12

_This pervert’s insane obsession became even worse, didn’t it?_ He wondered if there was a rehab for her type of addiction because really, she had gone off the deep end. Where was the Victorian manual of love? What happened to taking things step by step? Did those get thrown out of the window once Brigitte got a taste of more?

“We suggest you do not stay in the house for the next few weeks.” Detective Harris told him once they finished searching the house a few days later. The number of mini-cameras had been astonishing and obviously high-tech by the look of admiration some cybersecurity officers had on them. “It is not safe here any more, and we do not know whether the stalker will do something more drastic now that we have disrupted their plans,” she seemed a bit embarrassed as she spoke, although it was standard procedure to advise him as such.

Seriously, how was he supposed to stay there, listen to all this bullshit and not call it for what it is? Brigitte had one thick face, for she stood by his side as the detective spoke and very calmly nodded along. Tristan started to regret trying to one-up this pervert. Her shamelessness knew no bounds, how did he ever imagine he could win against her?

“Is there anyone you can stay with during this time?” Harris continued.

“I wonder if Mr. West—”

“West,” Brigitte interrupted him with quick precision. “… is married and with children. It would be an inconvenience, and he really wouldn’t be able to help you for longer than a few days.”

“Jane—”

“— is out of the country for a music video. Even if she were to return, her work schedule and travel itinerary really wouldn’t be compatible with long-term house guests.”

“I could go to a hotel,” he challenged.

“While I would, of course, help you with the expenses if that were your choice, living in a hotel would be difficult for a painter’s lifestyle. No studio. No private space. Bustling tourists and conferences,” Brigitte smoothly answered.

She had an excuse ready for everything, didn’t she?

“I could rent a flat,” it was a weak effort, he knew that.

Seeing the early signs of resignation settle on him, she continued with a smile in her voice. “It would take time to find a good one. In addition, we do not know if your stalker, with the resources they seem to have, would find out about the new location. No, the best solution would be for you to move in with a close friend who has no family to inconvenience, with a compatible work routine, with ample space to set up an atelier, and with the wealth and resources necessary to keep you safe.” She seemed to be checking requirements off a list as she spoke. At the end, her eyes were dancing with mirth.

“I assume,” he grumbled, patience long-drained for acting innocent. “—that you wish to suggest yourself as the _optimal_ choice for this?”

He sounded, even to his own ears, defeated. Tristan was certain that if he chose the hotel, either his bank account would freeze, his bank would close/bankrupt or every hotel room available in the city would be bought out. She was crazy and had the riches to indulge in her craziness.

Brigitte, in contrast to his suddenly muted spirits, was full of joy and enthusiasm.

“Pack something light for now,” she told him because the issue was decided just like that, wasn’t it now? “I’ll have everything else sent over to the house tomorrow.”

He entered the house, left with no other choice. Well, he could always just run away to another country, but life on the run was _so_ exhausting. He should have swallowed his pride, admitted that he had been careless and exposed himself to her and just continued as if nothing had happened. But no… He wanted to scare her just as he had himself and now here he was, packing his clothes to move in with her. Because make no mistake, he was moving in. With how greedy, shameless and perverted she was, how could she ever let him go after having him so close?

He could only hope she wouldn’t install cameras in her own house. Thinking of her grabby hands and self-satisfaction, he lowered his expectations and hoped she wouldn’t install cameras in the bathrooms.


	15. Arc 1.13

All things considered, moving in with Brigitte only made his life more comfortable.

It seems that even she, the shameless pervert that she was, realized that she was pushing him too far with this move of having him on-site 24/7, so now he had no cameras in the bathroom **_or_** bedroom. A step forward from his previous conditions.

In addition, his atelier was now larger, his clothing, food and shelter provided for at excellent quality, and he no longer had to cook, clean or do the laundry. And the only price he paid for all that was the loss of some dignity and a housemate. Not a bad trade at all.

Brigitte, however, had started to behave even more audaciously than before. She would hug him to say good morning, she would hug him to say good night, she would hug him before leaving the house and once she returned, she would hug him to say ‘thank you’ and to say ‘sorry’ — in short, she would hug him whenever given half a chance. Other than that, she started testing nicknames on him. She would say “baby”, “dear”, “precious” among others, at any moment, excusing herself by saying she was a naturally affectionate person who used such words with all her friends. Which was obviously nonsense, until she pointed out that he was her only friend, so he couldn’t call her words a lie. At the time, he couldn’t choose between feeling irritated that she had once again beaten him with her stupid perverted logic, sorry that he was her only friend, or warm for the same reason. He decided to stoically ignore the last two emotions for the sake of his mental stability.

The beeps of a locking car came from outside the house, so Tristan turned off the TV and made for the front door. Their house was quite a bit far from their closest neighbours, so the sounds of a parking car could only belong to Brigitte. Looking at the time — 17:30, — she had just finished work. He opened the door and waited for her to come in. He helped hold her bag and coat as she removed her shoes. The first time he had done this, Brigitte had stared at him in a mixture of awe, disbelief and affection that had confused him as to the reason. He was only being polite, but she had embraced him fiercely for a few minutes right at the door. Now, he very naturally placed her coat on the hanger and the bag on the small table in the hallway, before Brigitte hugged him again as her “I’m home!” for the day. The fact that the disbelief and awe in her eyes reduced every day, giving way to more affection, was one of the things that he chalked up to Brigitte being a silly obsessed puppy, and that he refused to examine more closely.

“I made lamb chops for dinner tonight,” he said once the hugging session was over. He massaged the skin over his heart as he spoke. It always beat irregularly fast at times. Maybe his arrhythmia was getting worse? But Tristan’s illness should be getting better with him taking his pills regularly. He frowned. He should check that soon.

“Bored with chicken?” she teased, knowing his habits well. Tristan was the type of person to overindulge in one food for a week or two, then get sick of it for a month. Until he moved over to another food and repeated the cycle.

“A bit,” he added with a small tint of pink covering his cheeks. He knew he was a bit childish when it came to his eating habits, but he wasn’t about to stop.

“I can’t wait,” she said, smiling, before going to undress and wash up.

Once they were seated at the dinner table (the small, homely one in the kitchen, not the large, formal one in the dining room), and Brigitte stopped gushing over the food he made (like she always did), she dropped an unexpected bomb on him.

“My parents will be coming over the weekend.”

“Oh,” he says after a while, feeling stupid that he hadn’t foreseen her plan such a cliché move until now. “Should I leave for the night then, so that you may have some private time with them?” He was grasping at straws here.

She guiltily ( _“Faker!”_ he wanted to shout) glanced at her empty plate, before continuing. “They are actually coming to meet you.”

“As the friend who you are helping out by protecting him from his stalker?” he tried to _gently_ hint.

“As my… boyfriend,” she finished, and she couldn’t hide the joy in her tone at those words.

He wanted to plunge his face into his hands before slapping her into normality once or twice. Instead, he just sighed. “I didn’t know we were in a relationship.”

“We aren’t,” she rushed to assure him. The unspoken “yet” in her eyes was obviously his overactive imagination playing tricks on him. “But, they have been pushing for me to get into a relationship lately. Always introducing and mentioning one person after another. It is getting tiring.”

She really did look very troubled and irritated at her parents’ behaviour. Now, if only he didn’t know for a fact that her parents couldn’t even make a phone call with her without scheduling an official time with her secretary days in advance, let alone have any say in her life, he would feel some sympathy for her.

“And I thought, since you are already living here, it would make a convincing story for them to stop for a while,” How could someone lie so openly for something so shameless, he couldn’t understand.

“It will only be until the police solve your case.”

For a grown woman, she had quite a skill for puppy eyes. A skill she often used when speaking outright falsehoods.

“Right.” He put as much derision as he could in that one word.

“Do it for me?”

Did she have so little ability to feel humiliated that pleading like this could become a pastime? He pretended to be deaf.

But he ended up getting taken advantage of again. With the skill of an experienced hunter, she suddenly hugged him tight, her cheek over his, and he could feel himself blushing at the intimacy. This stupid pervert!

“Please, beloved?” she whispered, breath tickling his ear.

His heart started beating weirdly fast again. He really had to schedule an appointment with his doctor.

He pushed her away.

Tristan coughed, face red, trying to calm himself down. “Okay,” he surrendered, not wanting her pleading to become a long-term campaign. He didn’t know if his heart could take it. Or his sense of shame.

Her grey eyes lit up, and although her fingers fidgeted wanting to hug him again, she restrained herself. Once he looked away, unable to bear her gaze when she became like this, Brigitte smirked. Her beloved was always so soft-hearted. Acting tough and uncaring but giving in to her unreasonable requests every time.

She looked at his pinked cheeks, face down to cover it from her sight in shyness, and she had to lick her lips, suddenly feeling quite thirsty. It was really… so cute.


	16. Arc 1.14

Having her beloved live with her was a dream come true. Having him agree to become her boyfriend — _she resolutely ignored that it was a pretend-relationship,_ — made her unable to go past a few steps without pinching herself to make sure it was real.

Although, there was the downside of having Tristan meet her parents. She wanted to shout from the rooftops, that it was him, always him, who she dreamt of, and that he was real and hers, only hers. But she couldn't. First, she didn't want anyone, the Pruitt's included, to know about how special her beloved was; second, she didn't want her beloved to think of her as a freak (secret complaints of her being a pervert did not count, they were her beloved's pet names for her); and third, she didn't want her beloved to run away if he thought his secrets exposed. She knew Tristan constantly underestimated her love and her means, but she would never commit the same mistake with him. He was special beyond her understanding and if he decided to run away, she didn't know if she could find him.

The day she first met him, at the gallery entrance, she hurried home to investigate everything about the beautiful boy who so reminded her of her dreams. A few hours later, her secretary placed on her desk the file of a young man by the name of Tristan Lewis. She had been shocked. The person described in that file couldn't be him, couldn't be her beloved. Yes, Lewis had passed her selection to become one of the final candidates two years ago, but she had eliminated him within hours of review. He was then placed under additional observation for the following three years (a provision she had put in place, just in case she was wrong about final candidates), but there was nothing to suggest that he could ever be him. She printed the images from the surveillance footage of the boy she met at the gallery and placed them side by side with those of Lewis. That was the same face, no doubt. But Lewis wasn't her beloved. The boy at the gallery was.

She had agonized over that for days. Tristan Lewis two years ago wasn't her singer, but now, two years later he was? What on Earth was she thinking? She spent the following weeks trying to find an explanation: twins separated at birth, doppelgängers, spiritual possession, reincarnation, shape-shifting... she had been losing her mind with every single added possibility becoming stranger and stranger.

"Brigitte?" a gentle knock outside the door to her home office roused her from her thoughts. "Are you coming for lunch?"

She opened the door, so she could look at him. He was there, in front of her. That was enough to calm her worries. "I'll be right there." He nodded and left.

The second time she met him, she had decided on the spot that it didn't matter. Her beloved could have as many secrets as he wanted. He was beside her, all real and perfect. Nothing else mattered besides having him, and protecting him. No secrets. No truths. Nothing else.


	17. Arc 1.15

He was dreading the dinner with the Pruitts. It was still a couple of days away, but dear Fate was he not looking forward to it at all! Who knew what nonsense Brigitte had fed them! His comfortable and lazy life could be in jeopardy if more ‘socialization’ with Brigitte’s social circle became a routine. He wanted a quiet and slothful future, not to climb social ranks in a world that was not his and couldn’t satisfy his indulgences. Maybe he should leave after all? He had been pushing it by accepting Brigitte’s _generous_ accommodation. He had sighed many times over how much easier it would have been to pretend an anonymous hacker had found out about her identity as his patron and had given him the evidence to prove it. Then, he would thank her for her help in Tristan’s name and sadly end this romcom ( _fake_ ) fleeing to some nice island with some very nice service. Unfortunately, Brigitte Pruitt was not just a pervert. She was a very rich and paranoid pervert. She hadn’t left a single trail of proof of her being connected to his patron’s organization that any hacker could find, him included. He suspected that it was because she had not allowed herself to be connected to the organization at all, working through numerous middlemen and leaving no paperwork with her name on it. The fact that West, his agent, had no freaking idea who she was, but had still been worried and combative over him being in a relationship, showed that orders came from somewhere else, very below the chain for Brigitte to be recognized by someone like West.

 _I could always fake the evidence,_ a sneaky thought came to mind. With his skills and the technological backwardness of this time, he could produce evidence so realistic, even Brigitte herself would not dare call it false and think she had been careless instead. But just as the thought came, he squashed it away. They had a game going on, him and her. The rules were set, it would be cheating to use knowledge unavailable to the time they were playing in.

The fact that he had never thought of using his skills as cheating before conveniently slipped his mind.

Looking at the time, it was nearing four in the afternoon. He better get started on dinner or it wouldn’t be ready in time for when Brigitte returned. He left his bedroom and walked down the stairs as he thought of dinner options. _Mm_ , he wanted to go a bit elaborate today. He hadn’t done lamb in a while. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten lamb. So options then: braised lamb, lamb tagine, lamb kebab… Oh! crown roast of lamb! That would go great with some baked artichokes and… His attention was suddenly removed from his mental menu and firmly stuck to the kitchen.

Were his eyes failing him? That couldn’t be Brigitte cooking up a storm in _his_ kitchen, could it?

He blinked. Nope. No hallucinations of any sort. Brigitte wasn’t where she was supposed to be — at work — but in the kitchen, trying to cook… something? The burnt smell of meat wasn’t very telling of what the heck she had been intending to do in the first place.

He leaned on the wall, arms crossed. He really wanted to see what her explanation for this was. He had assumed cooking was his duty as per their unofficial ‘roommate agreement.’ It had made him feel a bit better to have something to do. She had every other chore covered, and wouldn’t compromise even a bit on that. And he was too lazy to actually demand to do housework now. Asking about maids and cleaning staff had been met with a blank stare on her part that also led to rest _his_ worries about other people invading their privacy. So. what was she doing now? She may be courting him — in her very weird and stalker-ish way — but wasn’t she overdoing it with the spoiling? He was already freeloading in her house and living like a pampered cat. If she took away cooking duty from him, even he, lazy as he had become over many worlds, would feel a bit ashamed. The only price he was paying for her indulgence was a couple of hugs every day. She hadn’t been unreasonable in that way, for him to feel vindictive with housework. Heck, she hadn’t even escalated her pursuit, even when he had been expecting her to. Not that he was willingly expecting or wanting or actually thinking about it at all! It was just… she was a pervert but had not behaved like a terrible pervert so… so he wanted to reward her a bit… just a tiny bit!

He felt his cheeks heat at his thoughts. Why was he acting so stupid?!

He coughed, to get her attention, and willed his traitorous thoughts away.

“You are back early.”

She jumped, literally jumped in surprise. Luckily, she didn’t have a knife on her at the time.

Tristan couldn’t stop gaping somewhat at the sight. That was the most unaware and vulnerable he had caught Brigitte, ever. She turned to face him, her expression the picture of calm and discipline. She spoke, collected as always, but her fingers tightened their grip over the spoon. She was nervous. Tristan allowed himself to laugh. She was nervous!

“I didn’t expect you to be awake from your nap so soon.”

Instead of hearing her words, Tristan’s attention had far better things to focus on. Was that olive oil on her shirt? Was her chin stained with flour? He had never seen her so… so unbecoming. And yet, she still spoke with a confident tone, as if she was dressed for a banquet.

It was an image so contrary… _and so cute._

That last thought doused his laughter in cold water. He couldn’t be thinking of her as… Was he?

“—Tristan? Tristan? Beloved?” her touch on his cheek took him back to the present and away from thoughts he should not have.

He pushed her hand away, angry at her and himself for what he had been thinking. “Your hands are dirty.”

“So is your cheek now,” she retorted. “But better than thinking sad thoughts, isn’t it?”

Why could this infuriating woman so easily read him? He could feel a blush warm his cheeks. Again. “Decided to take on more housework?” Splendid distraction, he patted himself sarcastically in the back. He wished he could slam his head on the wall, several times. What an idiotic attempt at changing the conversation.

She eyed him for a while but thankfully moved on. “Not quite,” she returned to the kitchen sink and cleaned herself before grabbing some napkins and cleaning his cheek from flour. “I know you enjoy cooking and I wouldn’t dream of depriving myself of the delicacies your hands create. I just… wanted to show you that if you ever tire or wish to no longer cook, I could take over with no worries.”

This woman was really… “And can you,” he started, staring sceptically at the table, “take over?”

She coughed, likely embarrassed by the results of her efforts. “With some time, I can surely prepare more edible food. I just need practice.”

He walked over to the rubbish, from where the smell of burnt meat was coming and looked at the many slabs of wasted meat stashed there. “How much more practice are we talking about here?”

She refused to meet his gaze. He was a bit surprised at that. Not being able to cook wasn’t a big deal at all. Was she really that concerned about it? “You never need to worry yourself about anything that you do not wish to do. Whether a house, art supplies, cleaning, or cooking. I want you to know that. I can provide such material things.”

He couldn’t stop the warmth slipping into his chest. How did this stupid puppy keep saying such touching things without repeating herself?

“Very well then!” he said and grabbed the apron she had forgotten to put on. “I don’t want to be poisoned, so I’ll have to teach you myself, don’t I?” Then he helped her wear the apron.

She smiled at him. “Thank you, beloved.” He blushed fiercely.

“No one allowed you to call me such nauseating names, so stop it. You are becoming ridiculous.” As he reached for cleaning supplies — he couldn’t cook in the mess she had created— Brigitte embraced him from behind. Her breath tickled his ear. “But I like it. Beloved.”

He pushed her away. “Shut up!” His face burned with embarrassment. Why was she so attractive? What the fuck was he doing thinking her attractive? “Stop being such a pervert and help me clean up your mess!”

She chuckled and grabbed the dish rag. “As my beloved wishes.” He looked away in annoyance. What had possessed him to think of her as cute?! A pervert was always a pervert! She just hid it better!

* * *

Two hours passed, and he couldn’t believe someone could be so bad at cooking steak and preparing a simple salad. It was like she was allergic to… no, it was like the food was allergic to her and kept dying horrible deaths in her hands.

There she was, butchering a stalk of romaine lettuce, instead of cutting it. The lettuce would be screaming if it could. His eyes were definitely twitching in disbelief at least.

“OK, just… let me show you,” he couldn’t stand it any longer. He covered her hands with his and slowly moved through the motions with her. “We don’t need to be so forceful, just do it like this. This width is good enough.” He looked up to see if she understood, but was surprised at how close their faces were. She wasn’t looking at how he was helping her cut the lettuce at all. She was staring at him, grey eyes warm with affection and —.

He moved back as if burned. “Right, so do it like I showed you. I’ll marinate the steak.” He hurried away, increasingly aware of her lingering eyes.

In the end, as they set at the table, they prepared to eat what Brigitte, with Tristan’s help, had made.

Tristan cut a few pieces of meat and chewed it slowly. It was a bit overcooked but not too bad. He took a spoonful of salad. A bit on the salty side but still good. Overall, a great improvement and a lovely dinner. It was no crown roast but at the moment, he had no more cravings for lamb, but for the meal in front of him. He looked at Brigitte. She was frowning as she ate.

“It’s… edible,” she said after swallowing as if it were an insult. He laughed. Was she comparing her food with his? He had been a master chef in a previous life. Her comparison was ridiculous.

“No complimenting yourself at the dinner table.” Her eyes met his, surprised. He blushed faintly. He had made no secret of his pickiness and sensitive palate. “I might just give up on cooking if you keep going on like this, you know?”

She smiled. The food was much more delicious on the second tasting, and she knew it was because of the sweet person in front of her. Tristan continued with dinner and pretended not to see the burning eyes watching his every move.

Years down the line, it somehow became a routine, for the two of them to spend Friday nights cooking together. But Tristan wouldn’t think about that until a long time later.


	18. Arc 1.16

While he had never had a good impression of Brigitte’s parents, reality proved his thoughts too generous. George and Melanie Pruitt were two of the most ‘stuck up’ people he had seen in this world and as an artist, he had seen plenty of elite wannabes. It was no wonder the old Pruitt head had left most of the family inheritance to his openly gay son, even if he himself had been more socially conservative. Honestly, this impatient man in front of him couldn’t even hide the disdain he held for others, and the greed for his daughter, let alone succeed in bringing the Pruitt fortune to new heights. Melanie, however, seemed to be perpetually angry. She was one of those people who hated and hated and kept hating till their last breath. To complete this lovely ensemble, James, their younger son, had come uninvited to freely rejoice in his sister’s misfortune in choosing such an inappropriate lover.

Five minutes in and Tristan decided he would have to learn from Brigitte —after they _kindly_ asked the Pruitt couple to leave— if she had been adopted.

“You haven’t introduced us yet to this handsome young man, Brigitte,” her mother spoke as they sat down in the living room.

Tristan was sitting with Brigitte in the loveseat because he certainly couldn’t sit on the empty couch now, could he?

“Mother, father,” she started, sounding joyous and oblivious to the tension in the room. “... and James,” Tristan snorted a bit surprised at the ‘innocent’ pause before her brother’s name, the latter now glaring at them both. “I’d like you to meet Tristan, my lover.”

There was unmistakable pride in her voice and to make her claim even more apparent, she placed her arm around his waist and pulled him closer. Then, she kissed his cheek and softly continued as if she hadn’t just abused her fake-relationship privileges. “Beloved, these are my parents... and James.”

Tristan didn’t snort at Brigitte’s trolling of her brother this time because he was too busy controlling himself from slapping her perverted hand away. So, he just smiled at the kiss and tried unsuccessfully to dislodge her arm, before he settled for pinching at her fingers. Brigitte pretended not to understand his obvious and somewhat painful hints and stole another kiss.

“It is lovely to meet you,” he said, smiling because it was impolite to glare at one’s fake-lover in front of one’s fake-lover’s parents.

“Wish we could say the same,” James muttered quite loudly, angry at her introduction.

“James!” Mrs. Pruitt said as if she wished to scold him but spoke no further.

“It is fine, mother, really,” Brigitte interrupted. Tristan was shocked not to see her be his knight in shining armour. Wasn’t that her plan for earning his affections today? “James has just gone through a painful breakup. I am sure he simply feels lonely at seeing my lover and me together.”

Tristan had to hide his laughter behind a cough, although from the way their guests were looking at him, it had been in vain. Oh, James Pruitt’s ‘painful breakup’ had made the tabloids go mad for a month. And with a man as petty and thin-faced as him, having people wonder why his girlfriend would cheat on him — _someone both rich and handsome_ — with another woman, _well_ , it tickled his inferiority complex just right. After all, what reason could a once perfectly straight woman have for suddenly becoming lesbian or bi?

“Brigitte! Have some tact!” her mother said, now truly irritated. She grabbed her son’s hand to stop him from doing something he would regret in his sister’s living room.

“Ah, sorry, sorry!” Brigitte apologized, not really sounding sorry at all. “It’s still too soon, I understand.” She nodded sympathetically at her brother.

“And what family are you from, Tristan? I don’t think we have met before.” Brigitte’s father took the reins this time, moving the subject away from that sordid affair that had made their lives hell for weeks.

“The Lewis family,” Tristan replied, deciding to follow Brigitte’s lead on this, although he would definitely be more polite.

“Oh? I have never heard of them.”

What a stupid and cliché barb to throw. Another man in his place, however confident, would still feel frustrated at the power imbalance between him and Brigitte. But Tristan? Tristan thanked Fate every day for having a puppy like Brigitte to indulge him with no bounds. He couldn’t remember a single lifetime where he had been more comfortable and lazy than this. Even in the 26th century, it had taken him a decade of effort to complete his host’s wish — to reach unbelievable wealth— and even afterwards, he still had a company to manage for long hours and housework for when he returned... Truly, this life was paradise.

“No worries, it happens.” He answered and his reply must have really thrown them off because even James seemed to have forgotten the anger his sister had caused.

“And what do you do, young man?” George asked after he recovered from Tristan’s non-answer.

“Dear, how can you be so blind? Brigitte’s boyfriend is so handsome, he must be a model or some-such,” Melanie continued.

Well, he can’t say he didn’t expect this. He can’t quite thank them for being considered handsome enough to sell his looks and body for Brigitte’s favour now, could he?

On second thought... since Brigitte wasn’t about to play his knight, he shouldn’t have to play the damsel-in-distress.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pruitt. Brigitte often tells me she takes her good taste from her father.”

Mrs. Pruitt became red in anger, while her husband almost let out a laugh. James, obviously, had no idea how his mother had been insulted, for he kept staring at her confused.

As for Brigitte... she had the gall to kiss his cheek again like that was a reward he would ever ask for!

“But I am no model. I paint. And please do not worry, I will not be offended if you haven’t heard of or seen my art before. I am certain an elite CEO like Mr. Pruitt doesn’t have the time to visit galleries.”

Brigitte laughed out loud at his words. George lost his colour and both he and his wife looked very pissed.

He put on a confused face and addressed Brigitte. “Did I say something wrong? I told you I do not know how to speak to _important_ people like your parents, Brigitte.”

“How dare you...!” Mrs. Pruitt started as it became obvious how ‘important’ he thought them to be.

She very naturally pulled him in her arms, and acted alongside him. “Beloved, it’s my uncle who is head of the company, not my father.”

He continued to play up the vain idiot act as he tried to remove her from him. “But I thought you were the heiress and got that big Foundation to manage now that your dad is going to become Mayor?”

She petted his hair as if he was a particularly cute bunny that needed help understanding the world. “That was also my uncle.”

“Stop with the act, you stupid ponce!” James shouted. Although Brigitte had left the family, their uncle still considered her to be the heir and this fact had always easily enraged him. He was the eldest, he was a man, why did that bastard of an uncle want Brigitte to inherit?

“Brigitte! First you move out and declare you want to leave, insulting us, your family, and now you find a worthless painter as your boyfriend?!”

Her mother could insult her all she liked but how dare she insult Tristan?!

“Mother, I care not what you think. I assure you I have no idea why uncle would choose me to be his heiress but looking at the only other option,” and here she stared pointedly at James, “I can make a strong educated guess as to why.”

Then she embraced Tristan, as she dropped another bomb. “But do rejoice my dear family, Tristan has just accepted my proposal,” she ignored Tristan’s surprised squeak of _“I did?!”_ and continued, “and once he and I marry, I will make certain that every single company share I have goes under his name.”

“I have heard enough of this nonsense! Brigitte, you will stop growing so disobedient and come to your senses. You think Stephen will still make you his heir if he hears about this little boytoy of yours?” George shouted before redirecting his ire at Tristan. “And you, you little gold-digger! You call yourself a man? You will get out of my daughter’s house and—”

“I think we are done here,” Brigitte spoke up, and stood. “I brought you here to inform you of my decision, not to disparage my fiancé.”

“You have finally gone insane, haven’t you?” James laughed maliciously. “First with those stupid dreams about some fucking fairy and now—”

“Get out,” Brigitte didn’t quite shout, but she couldn’t stand how they spoke of her beloved any longer. She especially couldn’t stand being reminded of the years she had been told he was merely a disorder her ill mind had conjured.

“Brigitte, how can you speak to your brother so—” Mrs. Pruitt tried to interfere, but she wasn’t in the mood to humour her.

“You are no longer welcome here. Get out of my house.”

Tristan had never seen Brigitte as angry as she seemed. She wasn’t screaming, or gesticulating. He had thought the rage of a woman as cold as her would run hot. But it seemed he had been wrong. Brigitte seemed even more disaffected than usual, her face closed, her eyes pale ice, her hands resting at her sides, voice indifferent and barely more than a whisper.

“Now listen here, you unruly—” George started but Tristan interrupted him this time. He couldn’t let these idiots irritate this silly puppy like this.

“Mr. Pruitt, you will either leave or I will call the police. I am certain the press will love hearing all about this soon as well.”

The man gritted his teeth in anger, eyes brimming with hatred. Tristan was sure that if Mr. Pruitt could, he would kill him on sight. George signalled to his wife and son and got up to leave, but not before leaving a few parting words for the both of them, at the entrance. “You will regret this.”

Tristan smiled as he accompanied them outside. “Rest assured, for this visit, we already do.” He said and closed the door shut.

He sighed against the door now that this debacle was over. What should he do about Brigitte, though? Having parents like these, it was a wonder she didn’t become even more of a stalker-ish pervert than she already was. _Like her imbecilic brother,_ he thought in distaste.

He entered the living room and saw that Brigitte was sitting on the sofa, staring at some point on the wall morosely. At first, he had been angry about the supposed proposal, but she probably spoke out in anger then.

“Hey, that didn’t go that bad. Your brother certainly got his ego bruised at least.” This was the first time he had to deal with a sad Brigitte, he wasn’t quite sure whether keeping quiet would be helpful or not. Suddenly, Brigitte embraced him, her head resting on his shoulder. He returned the hug and started humming.

A few minutes into the hug, she spoke. “It has always been like this. _That_ family.”

He continued to hum as he started patting her back.

“We will be different, won’t we? Promise me that we will be different, Tristan.”

Her voice was so soft, that he couldn’t help but pity her. While there were definitely many worse fates than that of Brigitte, this was her sadness, the sadness of his friend, so he couldn’t help but sympathize.

“Of course it will be different. There are no idiots in this house.”

“I am so grateful to have you as my family. Thank you for being with me, beloved.”

“Me to—” Tristan stopped mid-word as he suddenly realized something. _No. It couldn’t be._

He pushed Brigitte away and got up. She looked surprised and sad but her eyes were laughing at him! This stupid puppy dared to deceive him!

“You pervert! You pretended to be sad, so I could pity you!” he shouted.

“I wouldn’t, beloved,” she started to explain but her lips twitched trying to contain her smile.

An even more horrible realization just came to his mind as he saw how self-satisfied she seemed.

“Don’t tell me— you orchestrated all of this?” As he spoke, he became more convinced of his words. “You know your parents’ characters, you know how they would react, you acted like that on purpose!” He remembered another terrible, horrific memory. “You called me your fiancé! When did I ever become—” he stopped, for Brigitte didn’t look guilty, she looked _proud_. “It wasn’t valid! Our relationship is fake! Why are you so damn happy?!”

She grinned fully now. “James,” she said as explanation and it was enough.

Tristan finally became aware of how devious Brigitte was. Her brother hated her guts and would definitely make use of anything he thought could help him in his goal of disqualifying Brigitte as an heir. And if he, in all his idiocy, thought that an ill-matched marriage could ensure that, what would he do with that knowledge? He’d make it go public as soon as possible.

Ah. He got fooled. He had thought this fake-boyfriend thing was already a push on his limits. But it seems he had set his sights too low. Brigitte had completely crushed his limits with dreadful visions of a fake June wedding.

“Sorry in advance for the media circus this will become?” She was starting to become worried now that her beloved stopped shouting. He couldn’t get out of this without it becoming even more of a public circus. She may have cheated a tiny bit by forcing his hand like this, but what could she do? Every day that passed was a chance for her beloved to suddenly realize that he no longer wanted to be lazy and just get up and run away to places she couldn’t find. No, she had to claim him any way she could before that thought even made it into his head.

He sighed and then coldly stated. “The tiramisu I made for you this morning? I am throwing it out of the window.”

The image of a perfect tiramisu made by her beloved’s hands getting eaten by flies and ants made her forget her pride. She couldn’t let him do this! “But beloved—”

“—And,” he continued, unforgiving. “You are no longer allowed to touch me for at least a year, maybe more.” She tried to interrupt him again, but he forced his words through. He couldn’t let this stupid puppy think there were no consequences. “No hugs, no kisses, no nothing. I dare you to try.” With that said, he left the room.

After he left, Brigitte smiled. Ah, her beloved was really a spitfire. He looked so beautiful, eyes blazing with anger, voice low and rough. Really, she commended her self-control for not jumping him right then and there as he ‘punished’ her. In the end, he allowed for them to be engaged. But a year of no touching was a bit much. She should think of some ways to soften her beloved in the upcoming month. After all, 30 days of no hugs was enough torture.

Mission accomplished, she decided to go to the kitchen for some dessert. The tiramisu had looked especially good...

 _Fuck,_ she thought as she ran to the kitchen. She had yet to save the tiramisu!


	19. Arc 1.17

This life may have been his happiest. Simple, comfortable and in good company. He had started to worry that it wouldn’t last.

“I love you.”

His hand shook at the words, red paint splashing across the canvas. Tristan was roused from his thoughts, surprised. Inspiration lost, he stopped painting and gazed at her. What had she just said?

She looked back warmly, grey eyes softened, ice melting into pools whose depths he could not explore. She made sure she had his attention this time.

“I love you.”

He tried to ignore her and turned to his canvas. Bright colours had mixed in ugly lines. He wasn’t sure whether he could save this portrait. He would have to start over.

“Beloved, listen to me.”

Brigitte had somehow sneaked up behind him, hand petting his cheek. He flinched from her touch as if it burned. For all he could tell now, it did.

“I love you.”

Why was she doing this? Why was she tearing the fragile pretence they had kept going for the last two years of a game where they played at a relationship? Where there was no love and no hurt? Had she started to hope their marriage was real?

He didn’t love her. But he didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want things to change. He was greedy, selfish and lazy. He wanted her love, her affection, her easy trust and fiery attention. But he couldn’t give her this, not his love.

“I don’t love you,” he answered and something clenched in his chest at his tone. Cold, calm, unaffected.

She nodded confidently as if she had always expected such an answer.

Tristan thought that she would either break down or try to possessively lock him at her side. She did neither. Her eyes reddened somewhat but nothing else. This had always been the only point they had never acknowledged. For him, it was always all a charade. The police, the media, her family. It didn’t matter. But for her…

“I love you,” she repeated.

“I know,” he frowned. Hearing it again and again hurt. “You told me. What are you, a broken record?”

She didn’t laugh. Why didn’t she laugh? This was the moment to move past this, to pretend it never happened.

“I love you,” she continued as if she did not hear him. “I love you and I always will. You do not love me and you may never do. But I love you. I want you to know that I love you. I care not for who you are or who you were. You, here, now, I love you. And I always will.”

She then lifted his chin, face ever so close to hers. He closed his eyes, fearing and reluctantly anticipating a kiss that never came. His lips remained untouched, but the corners of his eyes felt the softness of her lips, drying up his tears. Had he been crying? He did not notice.

“My beloved,” she whispered, one last caress over his cheeks, and she moved back to sit on the couch, posture ready to model as she originally had been doing.

He stared at her uncomprehending, before realizing he had been granted a reprieve. He removed the red-painted canvas and placed a new one on the easel.

Tristan started sketching. He would have to draw her eyes softer than before.

* * *

He lived in this world for a long time. He usually left as soon as he finished completing his host’s last wishes, not wanting to linger in a world that wasn’t his, in a life that wouldn’t have been his choice. But he stayed this time. And it was all due to the aged woman resting on the bed.

Just as she had promised over 50 years ago, Brigitte loved him quietly but fiercely, determined to never let him forget. He spent every morning and every night these past few decades, with a kiss upon his cheeks and an _“I love you”_ for a greeting. But nothing more. It seemed she had decided to simply be thankful for what she had, him as her husband-in-name, sleeping in the room next to hers.

If things were different, if he hadn’t been a mere spirit lost amidst worlds, if he had been the true Tristan Lewis, he could have loved her. And he would have been the happiest being on that planet for simply being able to return her selfless love. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t Tristan. And he couldn’t love her. He couldn’t let himself give in like that. Not once. It would break him.

“Beloved?” her voice was just as warm, if not warmer after years of use.

“What is it?” he asked, placing his hand on hers.

She was dying. His friend, his only reason for staying, couldn’t stay herself any longer, and in that, he couldn’t either.

“Stop thinking sad thoughts,” she scolded him. He chuckled. She spoiled him incessantly but the only thing she would never let pass was his propensity to guilt-trip himself.

“I was happy,” she continued. “I am happy. And it is all due to you.”

Brigitte slowly took his hand to her lips for what was likely the last kiss.

“Pervert,” he grumbled because he had done so for a lifetime.

She smiled. For some reason, she adored his complaints. “I love you. Always.”

After the first few years, he got used to her confessions, and he answered differently from his first time, when he had been fearful and confused. “Thank you.”

_Thank you. For saving Tristan. For meeting you. For loving me._

* * *

_~ End of Arc 1: Unless first a dream_


	20. Arc 2.0 - Dreaming of Ganymede

He couldn’t breathe. He opened his mouth, water rushing in, and he choked. His lungs were burning. He held on to a marble surface and pushed himself up.

Air! Finally. He punched his chest, trying to help himself choke up the water.

He barely noticed that he had been drowning in a large bathtub as he tried to get out. His body had no strength, so he fell on the cold floor. His skin felt ablaze, and his sight was blurry. He couldn’t even think about where he was before he started vomiting uncontrollably.

What was happening? Was he poisoned? He had to get up, had to find help.

He stood up again, and barely took a few steps holding on to the wall the entire time.

“Help—!” he started to call before another bout of vomiting took over.

After he could breathe again, he started to look for a door. This bathroom was too large, he wouldn’t make it out in time before unconsciousness took over. Dammit! Didn’t he have a phone or something?! He looked around hurriedly, hoping this world was advanced enough for him to find some kind of— There! On the sink! He pushed himself off the wall and onto the other side of the bathroom. He started dry heaving as soon as he touched the sink. Sight getting worse, he grabbed what looked like a watch, but seemed to be some sort of communicator as well. He pressed what looked to be an SOS signal, before losing all strength from his fingers and leaving the watch to fall onto the floor. Strength entirely gone, he sat on the floor as his stomach tried to expel contents that it no longer had.

He heard the sound of automated doors sliding open, and then someone shouted, “Heru!”

He passed out before he could see who it had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are starting a new Arc!  
> This is a short introductory prologue to Dreaming of Ganymede. And this world will be no vacation for our MC! I am excited about this because *spoilers*! Not telling!  
> Btw, since this is too short, a new chapter will come out in a couple of days, instead of a week.


	21. Arc 2.1

It hurt. It hurt so much. 

_Beloved..._

It was burning. Everything was burning.

_Do not be scared. I am here._

Something cool touched his forehead. That hand... Was it hers?

He tried to open his eyes.

"Bri—"

Someone hurriedly grabbed his hand.

"Heru! You are awake!"

A... man? That wasn't Brigitte.

"Quick, call the doctor! The patient is awake."

Where was he? The hospital? The house was burning. Where was Brigitte?

 _Beloved. I love you. Always._ A burst of memories brought realization.

He suddenly tried to get up in shock. The pain and fatigue made him quickly fall back onto the bed.

What had he been dreaming? She was dead. This was a new world, a new lifetime. He better get his head straight, or he won't ever return... return home? At the word "home" memories of a life in a lovely 21st century mansion popped up. No. That wasn't home. He had come so far. Done so much. He had to return to his real home, in a completely different world.

But, thinking of the burning house there, what did he have left? Did he have a home to return to?

He bit his lip. He couldn't think like this. He couldn't lose direction. So many years spent searching for a way back couldn't go to waste. His home-world was his true north. The compass that guided him amidst countless reincarnations. If he didn't have a direction, wouldn't he just be an aimless spirit?

But thinking of home...

Even if he wanted to change things now, it was too late. She was dead. What foolish regrets he had. A mere 50 years spent with someone for company, and he had become so... weak.

"Heru, you finally woke up."

Ah, that man was back again, along with a bunch of people in white uniforms. Not white coats. Not 21st century then. He needed to figure out where and when he was soon.

"Heru?"

He felt a wave of concern overcome him. Unsure about what that was and unprepared to answer any questions, he stopped fighting his fatigue and closed his eyes.

"Doctor, what's wrong with him?"

"He is simply tired, captain. He will wake up and fall asleep quickly while he recovers in the next two days."

He ignored them as he looked over Heru's memories.

Dammit. The year was 12,433. And he couldn't compare it to Earth timeline either because he wasn't on Earth at all!

His host's name was Heru d'Aville. He lived in one of the three solar systems of the Galecian Union. And he was a male omega. Because yes, evolution had gone down a different path in this world and created two biological genders and three dynamics for most sentient species. Because, of course, there were also more than just humans in this world. At some point in history humans became an interstellar civilization and met with many other sentient and intelligent lifeforms. One of those were the Galecians, of which he was one. Apparently, his species had no physical differences from humans, but was entirely different mentally. Galecians were natural empaths. That attribute made them very codependent and socially connected. As such, pacifism was part of a Galecian's nature, and they were currently the most advanced civilization in known space. However, their social codependency had limited their expansion to only three systems, despite being the earliest people to become interstellar.

Here, he took a moment to straighten his thoughts. Despite how fascinating this world's history seemed to be, he needed to first focus on learning who his host was and how he ended up poisoned.

Heru was the only omega child of an influential family. His alpha mother was a 3-star admiral in the Galecian space fleet. His other mother, a beta, was an elected senator of two decades. He had an older brother, an alpha, who had followed in their alpha mother's footsteps and currently held the rank of captain. Heru himself had just reached the age of majority, 25, and was currently in his second year of a master's degree in music. He was quite ordinary in all aspects, except for his exceptional looks, and had a spoiled personality with a vain streak a mile long. Still, there was no reason why anyone would poison him.

Heru had lived a safe and happy life in a wealthy family, in a peaceful and almost discrimination-free society. Why would he have such regrets that his soul would be called here?

Looking further, he almost laughed as sleep finally claimed him. There was a sweetheart.

When he woke up again, there were three people in his room. The tall blonde in uniform talking on her communicator — _comms_ , Heru reminded himself — was likely his alpha mother, Kaire d'Aville. The short-haired brunette whose mood kept switching between a crying mess and being utterly pissed off was likely his beta mom, Delis, while the raven-haired man who kept broadcasting waves of calmness to cover his mom's emotions was his brother, Sander.

They all noticed that he had woken up simultaneously, and all of them hurried to his bedside right after. Heru hid a frown at that, did his empathy become stronger when awake or something?

"Heru, how are you dear? Feeling better?" his mom took the lead. Strangely, all her emotions appeared calm with a touch of concern to them, nothing like how she was before. _Empathic training_ , his memories explained. He would have to merge all the memories as soon as he recovered, otherwise this would become very annoying, very quick.

He opened his mouth to answer but his lips felt too dry. His mother grabbed a glass of water on the spot and slowly helped him drink. That was... weird. Dry wasn't an emotion, wasn't it?

Ah, _telepathic broadcasting_. The skill of delivering and receiving thoughts in a series of images and feelings to people whom a Galecian holds very close bonds to. Usually, this meant family only and it was quite difficult to do with a non-Galecian as a receiver.

Damn, now he had to closely guard the direction of his thoughts as well.

"I'm fine, mom. Just tired."

"You'll be fine, love. It all passed. The doctors said that you will recover completely in a few days and tomorrow we are going to take a leave of absence, so that you may heal slowly at home, OK?"

Heru was touched at her concern. He didn't have a family in his original life, so whenever he encountered a good family that cared for his host, he tried a bit harder to return their kindness.

"Mom, it's not necessary, really. But... what happened? The last thing I remember was bathing and then..."

A dark mood fell over the room, before the three of them barely managed to control their emotions.

"You were poisoned." His mother answered.

"How? Why?"

She hesitated a bit at this. "We checked every substance in the house. The poison was in your conditioner, Heru. We asked the droids but none of them even knew you had changed your conditioner from your usual one. Where did you find it?"

Here, Heru let himself fully feel the betrayal his host would have felt, making his family members frown. "I bought it. From an artisanal shop."

"Which shop? And when?" she continued.

"It was in the Bet'heldtian section, downtown."

His mother, now in a very sombre mood, stood up. "I will investigate this thoroughly."

"Mother, it wasn't Bet'heldt who did this to me."

She looked very defeated, "I didn't say that. We have yet to examine the shop."

"Lucas brought me to shop there. He recommended I use something with the scent of sandalwood. The shop had only a single bottle of sandalwood conditioner."

Comprehension filled their eyes, before his brother lost his temper.

"That bastard! How dare he!"

The anger was understandable. Lucas was Heru's human — Terran — boyfriend of two years. He was the alpha son of the Terran ambassador in Galecia.

"Sander, we have yet to investi—" his mother tried to reason but even she seemed to believe in Lucas' betrayal.

"If Heru had died, how likely would it have been for you to find out where he bought the conditioner?" his mom interrupted.

"It would have been impossible not to." his mother answered. "It has been only 6 hours since the poisoning. A full investigation team hasn't even been assigned due to the political nature of this and my request to be involved. But even then, a day at most, and any detective would have known to look for the shop, even if Heru used cash."

"So we would know, it was a Bet'heldtian shop, but would we have known Lucas was involved at all?"

"If he didn't suggest this in the shop, where he could have been recorded..."

"He didn't even enter inside." Heru answered the silent question.

"... then we would have very little reason to suspect him beyond just accompanying Heru there."

"The doctors said..." his brother suddenly opened. "... that they do not know how it was possible for Heru to have lived long enough for them to administer an antidote. The fact that he is alive is very much an unprecedented miracle."

"In a private holo-meeting last week, Admiral Bet'heldt swore to me on her late mother's name that every day Heru lived, would be a day of peace for Galecia." His mom suddenly said. "The Terran Federation probably learned about that somehow."

"It seems I will have to delegate the investigation to someone in the police force. This is enough of a political cluster-fuck without a military investigation on top of it."

"You wouldn't be able to build enough of a case to accuse the Terrans of breaching the treaty anyway. It's better we keep Lucas' involvement to ourselves for now. I will have to figure out how Bet'heldt's marriage proposal was leaked out first." his mom said, before turning to him, filled with worry. "I am sorry, Heru. It is not that we don't want to, but we have to be patient for now."

"It's alright, mom. I understand." He answered but only after broadcasting some reassurance toward them did they seem to believe that he had matured enough to actually let something like this slide for the moment.

Thinking of the marriage proposal, he held back a sigh. This life was going to be a difficult one.


	22. Arc 2.2

It had been three days since he had been released from the hospital. Today was the first day that he found some time completely alone. Due to the murder attempt, his family was understandably overprotective, but he really needed some privacy to fully consume his host's memories. He did not think he would be able to hide his ignorance of this world or any personality deviations once he was fully recovered.

Looking back on Heru's life, he couldn't help but hold some disdain for his host. Heru was very narcissistic. He was a spoiled brat who did anything and everything for attention. Having a wealthy and loving family who did not pressure him on anything, whether studies or career, a family that was often too busy to more closely examine and prevent Heru's attention seeking behaviour, had ensured a safe and worry-free life for him, up to the day he died by poisoning.

It was Heru's wish that he found most disdainful. It seemed as if his raison d'être was reflected in that last request. Narcissistic as he was, Heru did not wish to be loved, adored or revered. He wished to be envied.

What an ugly, selfish wish.

Looking on the bright side, it was much simpler to fulfill than becoming universally loved. It would have been easier still, if it weren't for that annoying marriage arrangement.

Not wishing to think about _that_ mess, he got up and decided to take a shower. As he undressed, he remembered that he had not seen his new appearance yet. His memories told him that he was very attractive, and from the last few days he had noticed that his long blonde hair was quite soft, but he was curious to see how much of Heru's narcissism was deserved.

Not having removed his pants yet, he faced the full-body mirror in the bathroom.

A shocked gasp escaped him. A pair of big, astonishing sapphire eyes stared back at him, popping under flawless creamy skin, with high but soft-seeming cheekbones, bow-shaped lips and radiant locks of hair falling messily over his face.

He was beautiful.

He had lived for so many years, and yet, he had never seen a more stunning _mortal_. Hell, he had seen _deities_ with more physical flaws than this!

Tall, slender and well-formed, his body helped push his overall figure toward the more masculine side of androgynous but there was no doubt that his appeal could not be limited by gender.

He, personally, had never had a host as beautiful as this. After gaping rather stupidly at what was now his body, Heru hid in the shower, embarrassed for having felt lust for his mirror image. Narcissism indeed.

After a few minutes of promising himself never to gape at his appearance in the mirror again, Heru turned his thoughts toward more serious matters.

Despite his host's excessive self-esteem, he enjoyed a good reputation for being kind, if a bit childish. That was a good thing, he could more easily move toward a gentle and mature image as a result of the traumatic assassination attempt. Acting childish, while inwardly being an attention-seeking brat was not something he wished to do anytime soon. Furthermore, that sort of personality is more easily loved, so he could start working on his host's wish that way.

On a different note, he was on a very difficult position right now. Politically that is.

There were three main superpowers in known space: The United Federation of Terra, The Bet'heldt Empire and The United Republics of Istergard. The Federation and The Empire had been enjoying a period of uneasy peace between them for the last few decades. And both had a Cold War going with The Republics. The Empire especially, was on an arms race with The Republics and actual war seemed to be looming on the horizon.

Heru wouldn't have been so worried about a potential war, if it weren't for the fact that both he and Galecia were in the middle of it. The Galecian Union was a small interstellar nation that didn't have an abundance of resources or people. Such a place would have usually been utterly ignored, if it weren't for its horrendous geographical location of being smack in between the borders between The Empire and The Federation. In addition, as if Fate herself had arranged it, the Galecian people were a rare commodity. Their longevity, their empathic abilities and their biotechnology knew no equal. An interesting titbit he learned was that native-Galecian a/b/o dynamics were spread among the Federation and Republics humans, as a result of a bio-tinkered virus that went out of control during first contact between the two species, more than 120 years ago. Since then, Galecians kept tight control of their biotech, as that accident showed how much potential for destruction their biotechnology had and how powerless they were to keep it hidden without powerful allies. There were simply too few of them in number and their civilization was not primed for war and aggression. Fortunately, The Federation had signed a peace treaty with them, while The Empire mostly ignored them. As for The Republics... well, there was a reason why young Galecians were told to never leave allied space.

In barely 40 years, The Empire had grown to become an aggressive nation with the greatest military in known space. The Federation was on the edge of civil war, and its leaders were pushing for an external war that would help unify its people. The Republics were starving for energy resources and needed the richer territories.

But how did this affect Heru personally?

A week ago, his mom had taken him to her study and explained the current political situation to him. There was a growing xenophobic movement in the Federation to annex Galecia. They couldn't win in a war, and losing Federation protection would lead The Republics to their door. Desperate, they had turned to the Empire for negotiations and surprisingly, the Bet'heldtian crown princess had seemed optimistic about an alliance. She had asked for reasonable conditions, despite being in a more powerful position, and had sworn to protect The Galecian Union without threatening their sovereignty or their technology.

She had only asked for one thing that had shocked the diplomats.

She wished to seal the alliance with a marriage. Her future consort did not have to be of political importance or part of any academic circles. In her words, "My consort must be the most beautiful person in the Union."

Reliving the memory, Heru felt a headache prompting. His host had raged in Delis' study. The Empire didn't have a good reputation. They were aggressive, war-mongering and this marriage proposal added the epithet 'backward' to their resume. Sealing alliances by marriage was done in ancient times. What millennium did this princess live in?

_"No!" the previous Heru had yelled. "You can't give me to those barbarians!"_

Now look where he was, a new Heru, stuck between a rock and a hard place, since the previous one had vaguely whined about the proposal to his Terran boyfriend, who then had told his politician father, who then informed The Federation and now, a murder attempt later, he had to accept the marriage as soon as possible, for Galecia could no longer delay with further negotiations.

Heru's wish had been to be envied. Galecians certainly wouldn't envy him, once this came out. The Federation and The Republics people would hate his guts, while Imperial citizens would pity him.

Because, of course, the princess he had to marry couldn't be the normal type of power-hungry future tyrant. No, she was the sadistic matricide type.

He closed his eyes as the steam became denser. Just his luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I wanted to let you know that both of my novels are going through a small hiatus of 2-3 weeks because I am currently working on my finals. You may find current advanced chapters on my patreon, if you wish, but the regular schedule will resume in a couple of weeks.


	23. Arc 2.3

“The engagement reception will be next week.”

Delis looked like she was waiting for an explosion as she spoke. Heru wished he could smile at the sight. She seemed to be warring between guilt and duty but also a good deal of determination. She was a good senator, but also a good mother.

“Mom, I haven’t changed my mind. I will accept the marriage. The admiral is probably not as bad as the rumours.”

His family seemed to pause at his words. They hadn’t yet gotten used to this level of maturity on his part. “Really, a change of environment might be good for me. It will help get away from… the memories.”

Seeing him hesitant to elaborate further, his mothers relented. “It is idiotic to believe those useless rumours. Some of our best empaths have been in the same room as admiral Bet’heldt before and none of them ever found any guilt or hate in her aura. The most they could sense was sadness and a worrying level of indifference. So, either she did kill her mother and is incapable of guilt, or she didn’t and is covering for someone.”

Heru looked up from his dessert, surprised. He hadn’t heard about this before. He had thought the rumours the result of an open secret. 

Kaire seemed to find his surprise amusing. “I know that with this arranged marriage, we might not have seemed like the best parents, son, but we are still your parents first and servants of the Union second. Did you honestly think we would let you share your life with a monster?”

Ashamed on behalf of his host, Heru could feel his cheeks warm. Delis moved to hold his hand and smiled reassuringly at him.

“So is she,” Sander spoke, “covering for someone?”

“We have no evidence, of course, but that’s what the Intelligence Committee have suspected for a few years now. ” Kaire continued. “Five years ago, the Empress died and the emperor was sent to the Imperial Hospital with heavy wounds. Half the Imperial Palace staff was killed. Mere days after, news that the admiral wanted to usurp the throne and thus, had been responsible for the attack on her parents spread among the people. It had all seemed a bit too convenient to us. The admiral would get the throne in a few decades anyway, so why the attempt at a coup?”

“She could have become impatient. Isn’t it said that the emperor and her don’t get along well?” Sander said.

“They don’t. But I believe that if Admiral Bet’heldt had wanted her father dead, he would be dead, not wounded. In addition, the emperor started to remove himself from politics and power following the death of his wife. He hasn’t been seen in formal events in a long time. Such behaviour is not the behaviour of an all-but-deposed ruler struggling against traitors.”

“Was he the one who killed the empress then?” Heru asked.

Delis moved the chair over to be closer to her younger son. “We think so. Not even the highest of his officials have vouched for the emperor’s mental stability in a long time. It’s the reason why although the alliance treaty requires the emperor’s oversight, none have questioned the admiral’s role in substituting for her father.”

“Again,” his mother said, “We have no proof of anything. We could be wrong on all counts here.”

“But if the admiral is not playing with us and reasonably sane, why would she ask for such a ridiculous condition for the treaty?” Heru asked.

“We have no idea. I have investigated every instance of her visits in this planet. You have never met before. And neither your mother, nor I are influential enough to irreversibly tie our nations together with just a marriage. The eldest omega daughter of the president or the beta son of the vice-president are both of age, of pleasant appearance and education, and overall infinitely better matches for something like this.”

“Maybe the admiral fell in love at first sight.” Sander interrupted.

Heru eyed his brother disbelievingly. “I have never seen her in my life.”

“Maybe she saw some holopics of you and her icy heart started to flutter or something.”

He punched his brother in the arm for the stupid remark. 

“It’s not the time for jokes, Sander.” Their mother chastised.

“I can’t find a better time, mother.” Sander said, suddenly sounding morose. “My baby brother has to marry an imperial autocrat to save our country from the threat of war simply because he is _fucking_ _beautiful_. If that isn’t the narrative of some inane YA novel somewhere, I’ll go kill the freaking autocrat.”

“Sander…” Heru spoke, shocked at the words. His brother didn’t curse or sound like… _that._

“I joined the military, mother, to protect this family, as you have done. I didn’t join to stand by as my brother is forced by a dysfunctional would-be tyrant to be her trophy husband. So, you think she didn’t kill her mother? Great. Mad Emperor Oz did. Now the only thing we have to worry about is that imperial power struggles in a star system 50 light-years away from here might result in Heru’s death.”

“You think we don’t worry about that constantly?” Delis snapped at him. “This is my son we are talking about. If I thought a war between the three superpowers wouldn’t end with Galecians, including us, in the hands of human traffickers from the Republics, I wouldn’t say a word against war. But we do not have the privilege of war. War is led by the strong for they fear seeming weak and is fought by the weak for they are not strong enough to choose differently. We are weak, Sander. We are desperately, exhaustingly weak.”

“Dear, calm down.” Kaire said as she embraced Delis in her arms. Her wife’s emotions were all over the place and the room had become suffocating under her feelings of helplessness. “I thought you more even-tempered, Sander.”

“I.. I am sorry, mom. I was just speaking without thinking.” Sander apologized as he realized how absolutely awful his mom felt. His honest regret lightened the atmosphere a bit.

Suddenly, a wave of optimism engulfed them. They all stared at Heru with ludicrous faces.

“What?” Heru said, smiling somewhat carelessly. “I thought I was getting married to a future empress, not sent to my execution. Tone down the angst, will you?”

“Heru, I am just worried that—” his brother started.

“And so am I,” he interrupted. “But worry means nothing. Admiral Bet’heldt is a rational human being with a lot of power. She has no reason to kill me, and neither does her father. I know I will be going to a completely foreign nation but I wasn’t joking when I said that I would appreciate a change of environment.”

“But you hate politics.” Sander insisted. “You have no idea how life as an imperial consort will be.”

“I will learn. I’m pretty sure they have etiquette and culture professors in the Empire. I am not a child, Sander. Our mothers are trying hard to make me see the good points but you don’t need to do that. I am not innocent. I can see how difficult things will become in the near future. But I will learn. The _p-po… poisoning,”_ he forced out a stutter, and looked at the ground as he continued, “was a wake-up call. It’s time to see things as it is. The admiral asked for the most beautiful person in the Union. She did not ask for me, or for the president’s daughter. ‘Beautiful’ means a lot of things. It is too vague. I don’t think she would declare war over us choosing a random model as her consort. Maybe this marriage was about something different. Maybe she wants to see Galecia’s attitude toward this treaty with our choice. I don’t know. I am not versed in politics as you said. But I sure am not her enemy. And she will understand that at our engagement. So while you may worry, do not prepare flowers for my grave yet.”

As he finished his speech — something he had rehearsed for a while now, — he raised his eyes to meet those of his family’s.

Sander seemed shocked at the level of rationality he had just displayed, while Kaire showed a mixture of guilt at the reason for his growth and pride for his reasoning. Looking over at Delis, however, Heru’s nervous smile almost slipped as he felt a flash of suspicious confusion among the happy surprise that enveloped her broadcasted emotions. Kaire and Sander were both in the military and thus left often times for entire months before returning home, so their understanding of Heru’s character wasn’t comparable to that of Delis. She, while busy herself, always made certain to keep an eye on her youngest son and understood him the best.

Her reaction was unfortunate but within his expectations. Even if he pretended to be her Heru to the best of his abilities, he didn’t have high hopes that it would be successful enough to fool her for years to come. He would slip up. Whether on something small like his changed taste in food, or the type of music he composed, or on something far more immediate, like his inexperience with empathic communication, he would slip up and Delis would break at the realization that her son was dead and someone else possessed his body. He couldn’t let that happen.

That is why, despite numerous disadvantages, this arranged marriage to a foreign nation was his best chance at survival. According to his memories, because of their empathic bonds Galecian families could tell when one of their own died or was in extreme distress despite distance. This bond didn’t allow him to fake his death and start under a new identity. And his host’s idiotic wish didn’t allow him to run away and live in blessed obscurity. Going to a place where no one knew him was the best option. The boost in reputation Heru would gain for his valiant ‘sacrifice’ in stopping a war was just the cherry on the cake.

Accepting his new family’s group hug, Heru thought of what he could say to Delis later to show her that her suddenly mature son, hadn’t matured as much enough to be a completely different person, or at least, not with just the murder attempt as a reason. 


End file.
